


Bathe in Fire, Burn in Blood

by underthenorthstar



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Animal Sacrifice, Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Dreams, F/M, Falling In Love, Fighting, Human Sacrifice, Hurt/Comfort, Ivar the Boneless - Freeform, Ivar wants love, Knife Use, Love, Mentions of Death, Mentions of past abuse, Mentions of past sexual assault, Mild Sexual Content, Norse, Ragnar's sons, Scars, Vikings, Violence, body image issues, but he's still kinda mean, dealing with FEELINGS, everything and everyone is a mess, fanily drama, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 45,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9653315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthenorthstar/pseuds/underthenorthstar
Summary: Ivar wants glory. Ivar wants fame. Ivar wants revenge.But, he also wants love.He's pretty messed up. But then again, she is too.(In which Ivar secretly longs for love, meets the girl of his literal dreams, and finds himself on a path he never thought he would travel.)*Formerly The Cripple and the Hellcat, please see authors note added at the end*





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> So a certain author on here currently writing a great Ivar story (you know who you are) inspired me to get back into writing with this little tale about our precious murderous Viking babe. He's my favourite character and I just want to give him some loving! I haven't written anything for a long time, so please bear with me! Also updates may be infrequent, I'm a working mom of a busy one year old. But I hope you enjoy!  
> (Ps yes I know the title is stupid, I'm not great with titles)

The gods whisper to him.

He hears them in his dreams, faint echoes speaking of fame, blood and glory. Of a great army, an army bowing to his command. He will be higher than any of his brothers. He will be the true heir of Ragnar Lothbrok. He will be Ivar the Conquerer. He sees himself bathe his blade in Saxon blood and sing to Odin above as he cuts them down. 

The gods whisper this to him as he dreams, dreams he has welcomed since he was a lad.

But he is no longer a lad. He is a man. And though the dreams still come, there is now something new. Something unexpected. 

Now, he dreams of long dark hair, of clear grey eyes. He dreams of pale skin, soft and supple under his calloused hands. Of a warm body between his arms, tucked safely against his chest. Pink lips that are not afraid to kiss him, small hands that are not afraid to touch him. Night after night, she comes to him. Shy and smiling. Soft and loving. He dreams and he dreams and he wants and he aches. 

He has never dared to let himself hope. He is a son of Ragnar, yes, but he is a cripple. A seemingly impotent cripple at that. He is not destined for love. There is no wife, no children, no family. The gods torment him with these visions of someone who clearly does not exist. For who could bind themselves to Ivar the cripple? What woman would willingly crawl into his arms, his bed? This woman he sees night after night, she is a figment of his mind. The gods show her to him and they laugh. They torment him with what he knows he will never have. 

But though he tries and tries, he cannot forget her. She embeds herself in his very being and he aches for her. For this woman who will love him, who will take his hand and not be ashamed. Who will look past his physical limitations, and see not a cripple or a burden, but a man. 

It is his secret desire and his secret shame. To want so badly makes him feel weak, childish. If his brothers knew of his longing they would torment him endlessly. But it does not matter. He will never have her. He is Ivar the Boneless. He is cursed, and he is alone. 

But then, his father dies. 

But then, the boats begin to arrive. 

But then, the army beings to assemble.

But then, he is introduced to an Jarl come to pay his respects. 

But then, the Jarl steps aside and says "This is my daughter, Freja." 

But then, he sees dark hair and grey eyes and pale skin. 

His heart stops. The gods smile.

It's her.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Freja are introduced and have their first conversation. It's not pretty. 
> 
> Tw: very slight mention of past physical/sexual abuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize in advance if I mess up the timeline of events from the show. It's hard to remembered the order of things!   
> Also, please pay attention to the tags. I don't want anyone to be uncomfortable with what they are reading. I'll try to post a trigger warning at the start of each chapter.   
> Hope you enjoy! Please give me some feedback if you can, always looking to improve!

Her breath catches in her throat. 

Her father is talking, something about what an honour it is to meet some of the sons of Ragnar, but she barely hears him. All she can focus on is the piercing eyes studying her intently. 

He's breathtaking . 

She's heard stories, of course. Of the famed sons of Ragnar, offspring of the acclaimed legend. "They are tall and proud, full of their father in every way," her own father had said. "Except the youngest, the cripple. What a pity, to have a son unable to walk or fight. A waste."

Looking at him now, Freja doesn't think her father was right in the slightest. 

His upper body is clearly well built, from years of dragging himself around on the ground. His tunic doesn't hide his strong chest and muscled arms. His hands are large and weathered. She is sure they could crush a man's windpipe in minutes. His skin is tanned, his hair dark. His face is well defined, not too sharp or too soft, with a strong, angular jaw. She takes all these features in with awe, but it is his eyes that really get to her. 

They are bright blue, sharp and piercing. They are eyes that can look through flesh and straight into the mind and heart. They are calculating, cunning, all-seeing. They speak of a man who observes and plots, listens and plans. A man who knows physical power isn't the only power, that knowledge can be something far more valuable. And as they take their sharp gaze over her, she knows instantly that Ivar the Boneless is no helpless cripple. Out of all of Ragnar's sons, she is looking at the most dangerous and deadly. 

A small thrill runs up her spine. 

"This is my daughter, Freja," she hears her father say, and she quickly tears her attention away from those blue eyes threatening to swallow her whole. "Freja, these are three of Ragnar's sons. Ubbe, Sigurd and Ivar."

She nods politely to the other two men, barely even registering them. Her gaze is immediately drawn back to Ivar, who is still staring at her like she is something foreign. 

"I am pleased to meet you," she says quietly, clasping her hands nervously in front of her. "I am sorry to hear about your father. He was a great man."

"Thank you," Ubbe is the one who answers. "We are glad so many have come to avenge his death."

"We shall wreck havoc upon the Saxon bastards and win victory in Odin's name," her father booms, clapping Ubbe on the shoulder. "Come, you must meet my son Gudrik! He is my only son, and a skilled swordsman. He's over in the corner with some of my men. Come, you two!"

Her father leads Ubbe away, Sigurd trailing behind them. Freja looks sideways at Ivar. He does not seem surprised or disheartened at being left out. He simply nods to the stool beside him, pouring himself another glass of ale. Her eyes widen and her heart starts beating faster, but she lowers herself onto the stool. He does not offer her any ale, just sits there looking at her as he drinks from his cup. She fidgets uncomfortably.

"I am sorry to hear of your mother's passing as well, " she finally blurts out, desperate for something to fill the silence between them. 

His face changes instantly. His eyes narrow, his brow creases in anger. She knows at once she has not said the right thing.

"My mother was murdered by a usurper and a harlot," he half growls at her, setting his cup down with force. She feels another thrill run up her spine at his voice. It's low and a bit rough, and she finds she likes the way it licks across her skin. "She deserves to die for what she has done."

She can see the pain hidden deep in his eyes, and she has to restrain herself from laying a hand on his arm in support. To lose both parents in such a short span of time, his suffering must be great. 

"I know how you feel," she says, desperate to provide some comfort. "I lost my mother too."

He fixes her with a cold stare. "Was she murdered unjustly in cold blood?" He asks bitingly.

"N-no," she stutters, a little surprised at his harshness towards her. "She died when I was 8. A summer fever."

"And your father is clearly still alive."

"Well, yes," she fumbles, feeling uncomfortable. 

"Then you don't know how I feel," he takes another swig of ale, eyes burning with anger. "You don't know anything. Just another silly Jarl's daughter. I don't need your pity or your consolation."

She is momentarily taken aback. Here she is trying to be sympathetic and kind, and he is throwing it back in her face. She can feel herself bristling. Her father has always described her as a cat. Soft and quiet most of the time, but when cornered, the scratching and biting begin. And she is feeling cornered.

"I am simply trying to be kind," she says, hands clenching the table. "There is no need to be rude."

He glares at her. "Who are you to speak of my actions?"

"Someone who does not like to be treated as such," she says defiantly. 

He slams a hand down on the table, making her jump. "I am the son of a king and I will treat people how I please!"

"You are a spoiled brat," she hisses at him, struggling to reign in her growing temper. "I have known pigs with better manners!"

Before she can think, his hand is around her wrist, squeezing. "And who are you to speak of manners, little hellcat?"

Her body instantly reacts to his touch, a scorching sensation running from her head to her toes. His hand is warm and she can feel the callouses rasp against her skin. Her mind is suddenly thinking of those large hands gripping her waist as he lowers his mouth to hers...she shakes her head, yanking her arm away before he can see just how affected she is. 

"Don't touch me," she sneers, still angry about his words despite her racing heart. "And don't call me that!"

"My, my, what a temper," he's mocking her now, a cruel glint in his blue eyes. "Tell me, hellcat, do you have many suitors warming your bed? I should think not. Because no man will have a woman he cannot manage. Unless you need a good beating to keep you pliant?"

She can feel roaring in her ears. The scars on her back itch in remembrance. Of him, of that night, of what almost came to be. Her blood boils with rage. And before she can think to stop herself, she is up on her feet and hears the resounding crack of her hand across his face. 

Odin preserve her, her father will have her hide for this.

"You will not say such things about me again," she seethes as he looks up at her in genuine shock, one hand coming up to rub his reddening cheek. "I am not some slave to be treated like an object. I am not a wayward mule to be beaten at will. I am a free woman, and I have done nothing to deserve such treatment from you. If this is the way you treat all women, Ivar the Boneless, then I imagine your bed is as cold as you presume mine is. Though I suspect your legs do not help matters. What woman in her right mind would bed a cripple?"

She says the last words to hurt, and it hits true. Pain flashes across his face, his beautiful features contorting in a way that makes her heart ache. But she has already made her bed. So she holds her head high, turns on her heel, and marches out of the hall. She can hear people whispering, can hear them wondering what just took place, but she ignores them. She simply wants to get out and away from the blue eyes she can feel burning into her back.

Ivar is harsh. Ivar is cruel. Ivar is beautiful. Ivar is hurting. 

And her heart is in big trouble.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar pays Freja a late night visit after their little spat. 
> 
> Tw: violence, mentions of abuse, scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on an update roll! Things have been stressful at home so I've been escaping to this story, hence the frequent updates. They won't always be so close together I imagine.
> 
> Thank you for all your sweet comments, I'm glad you are enjoying this story! I love getting your feedback, keep it coming. 
> 
> I'm writing Ivar as being very emotionally conflicted because I feel that's how he would be. His default setting is rage (and it's hard to change years of habit) but he can't help but feel other emotions when it comes to Freja. So he's back and forth a lot. I apologize if it gets confusing, I'm just writing him how I see him. 
> 
> Anywho, on to the story!

Ivar slithers quietly through the sleeping town, hauling himself from shadow to shadow as he makes his way to the houses set up for important guests. Second one on the left, Margarthe had sobbed to him earlier. He grins wickedly in remembrance of her whimpering as he held his knife to her throat, pressing the blade just enough to let three pretty crimson drops fall. Although he is continuously afraid she will tell of his "secret", he craves the power he has over her. The fear in her eyes everytime she sees him. It is a heady rush. 

He shakes his head to clear it, reminding himself he is not here to think of torturing Margarthe. He is here for her.

He wants to grab her and devour her lips in a hungry kiss. He wants to take his knife and gut her from head to toe. He wants to take her in his arms and never let go. He wants to watch her blood stain his hands. 

He doesn't yet know which route this late night visit will take. He just knows he has to see her again. 

On one hand, she is the soft beauty of his dreams. When he had first laid eyes upon her his heart had nearly stopped beating. The dark hair, the grey eyes, the soft curves; it was like she had stepped right out of his mind. In form, at least. His eyes narrow at the remembrance of her hand coming across his face.

One the other hand, she is a hellcat. A wild, fiery hellcat. 

It makes him recklessly angry. How dare she treat him so, to speak to him like she did? And to hit him? His jaw clenches in rage. No one, let alone a mere woman, was to ever get the better of him. If he had kept his wits, he would have killed her right then and there. 

But it is not just anger he feels. When she had slapped him, eyes burning, it had tugged at something inside of him. His dreams of her, though pleasant, are always soft and tame. She clearly is not. It sends a thrilling shiver throughout him. What would it be like, to love her? To be invited to her bed? To have those grey eyes alight with passion instead of rage? He cannot help but let out a quiet groan. Odin above, the thought of those small hands raking down his back, nails biting deep enough to draw blood...

He pushes those thoughts aside quickly, scowling. What good are they? He cannot make love to her. She probably would not want him to anyways. He is a useless, impotent cripple. He will never know the passion and excitement of lovemaking. He will never feel the anticipation, or bask in the afterglow. And she had basically said as much. 

And with that, his sour anger returns. 

He reaches her guesthouse, pausing to make sure he hears nothing inside. He left her father and brother drinking with Ubbe in the Great Hall, so he knows she is alone. He pushes the door open quietly, sliding across the floor in perfect silence. All the way to the back right corner behind the curtain, Margarthe had said. The moon is bright enough tonight he can see fairly easily. He spots the curtain and begins to crawl towards it, pulling his knife out of its holder on his hip. 

Suddenly a torch flares to life beside him. He twists around quickly but he's too slow. Before he can even think, he's being pushed over on his back, his knife flying out of his hand and clattering across the floor. He grunts as a body lands on top of him, pinning him at his hips. He curses angrily, hands going up to push his attacker off of him, but he is stopped by the feel of cool metal on his throat.

"Hello, Ivar."

She's sitting on his hips, one hand against his chest and one holding a sharp little knife against his neck. Her grey eyes are unreadable as she observes him underneath her. She's dressed for bed, hair in one long dark braid and she's wearing a nightgown. He's momentarily stunned by how soft her skin looks in the torchlight. 

"I was warned you would come tonight," she says quietly. "It seems you have a habit of trying to kill women you deem have or will wrong you."

He scowls at that. Margarethe, the little bitch. 

"Who says I am here to kill you?" He glares up at her, struggling with the way this situation is beginning to affect him. The sight of her in just her nightgown, straddling him, catching him by surprise like that....he feels a rush of want and need fly through him.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Oh I don't know, Ivar. It's the middle of the night and you had a knife. What else would you be here to do? Cut my hair?"

Her sarcastic indifference maddens him. How can she be so callous with him, so unafraid? His arousal is instantly gone. He pushes himself up slightly so that the blade presses gently into his skin. 

"Well come on then, little hellcat," he growls, eyes narrowing. "Let us see what you are made of." He pushes further, and feels the blade bite into his skin. 

It's the distraction he needs. Her eyes widen as she sees the blood, and he takes advantage of her surprise. He knocks the knife out of her hand, grabs her waist and rolls. She shrieks as they flip, her head knocking hard against the wooden floor as he effectively reverses their position. He doesn't need a weapon; he pins her wrists above her head with one hand and wraps the other around her neck. She's flailing, trying to break free, but he is too strong. He laughs darkly. 

"Poor kitty," he croons, squeezing her throat gently, "where did your claws go?"

Her eyes are murderous. "Call me hellcat or kitty one more time, you vile piece of shit."

He squeezes harder, watching struggle to take a breath in. He can't help the cruel smile that crosses his face. "Foul words from such a pretty mouth, hellcat."

As soon as the words leave him, pain explodes in his groin. He cries out in agony, rolling off of her as he clutches his nether region. Odin's great name, she'd kneed him in right the balls. He'll kill her. He'll rip her open and he'll enjoy every damn second of it. 

His eyes swimming, he sees her sit up, take a few gulping breaths, and immediately dive for her knife. Ignoring the pain, he lunges forward, grabbing the end of her braid. She cries out, clutching her head as he drags her towards him. He wrestles her into into a hold with her back pressed to his chest. 

"You will pay for that," he hisses into her ear. 

"Make me," she retorts, and sinks her teeth into the arm across her. 

He howls and pushes her off of him. As she falls forward, the back of her flimsy nightgown catches on a broken clasp on his tunic. It rips right up to the neck, exposing her back. 

The atmosphere changes instantly. He blinks, the pains in his groin and arm forgotten.

Her back is covered in scars. 

Big, long, ugly scars. They're red and rigid and cover almost the entire expanse of her back. Harsh, cruel slashes, evenly spaced. He sucks in a breath. These are no battle scars. These are whip marks. 

She turns around quickly, hiding them from his view. She crawls backwards away from him, to the other side of the room. Her face is chalk white, her eyes wide and fearful. He knows then he has seen her most shameful secret, her darkest moment, and she is waiting for him to torment her about it. But he cannot. His anger towards her dissipates as quickly as it had risen. 

"Who did that to you?" He whispers, hands clenching against his thighs. 

"It is none of your business," she tries to snap, but it comes out wobbly. He watches her swipe hastily at her eyes, trying desperately to keep tears at bay. His heart clenches in pain. 

"What, nothing cruel to say?," she says bitingly, voice now thick with tears. "Nothing to say about how ugly they are? How I probably deserved them? How I needed a good beating to 'keep me pliant'?" 

"Freja...." it's the first time he says her name, and it tastes sweet in his mouth. But the taste is soured by the realization of what she has just said. It's his words from this afternoon. She had slapped him not simply because she thought him rude, but because he made fun of her darkest memory. 

And suddenly he feels the rage rise in him again. Not against her, but against whoever had done this to her.   
If he ever finds out who it was, death will not come quickly to them. He will make them squeal and beg and suffer. And he will enjoy it thoroughly. 

Right now though, he simply wants to take her in his arms and comfort her. The urge is so overwhelming he has to clench his hands harder to prevent himself from reaching for her. He shakes his head in confusion. This rapid changing of emotions and feelings towards her is exhausting. One minute he hates her, the next he wants to wrap himself around her and never let go. And he has only known her for less than a day. The thoughts do not help his anger. 

" I think you should leave," she says, shaking him out of his mind. She's sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, tears shining on her cheeks in the light of the torch. 

He scowls at her, his frustration at himself and his feelings making their way to the surface. 

"I would like my knife back," he grumbles, looking around the room for the wretched blade. 

"I will bring it to you tomorrow," she says shortly, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her ripped gown. "Now get out."

He grits his teeth. "I want it no-"

He's interrupted by the whiz of her own knife flying by his head, embedding itself into the wall behind him with a dull thud. "Get. Out. Now."

And for once in his life, Ivar the Boneless obeys. He crawls out of the house and into the cool night. When he is far enough away, he buries his face in the earth and screams in fury. 

Freja. Beautiful, maddening, confusing Freja. Freja with the hideous scars on her back. This woman, this harpy....he beats his fists into the ground. He does not know what to do. He does not know what he wants. 

But he does know one thing. 

He will get little sleep tonight.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days after their late night tussle, Freja encounters Ivar in an unexpected place with unexpected results. 
> 
> Tw: Mentions of violence, body demformities and body image issues, mild voyerism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are seriously too sweet. I'm so grateful for all the lovely comments and kudos. Much love!
> 
> I rewrote this chapter so many times until I was happy with it. I feel nervous to post it for some reason, I hope everyone likes it! I've been on night shifts this week so finding time to write has been easy. Enjoy!

She wakes up gasping, heart pounding and thighs clenched together. Her dream had seemed so vivid, so real. Ivar looming over her, face slack with pleasure as their hips moved against each other under the furs. One hand gripping her waist, the other fisted tightly in her long hair. She groans, feeling the weight and warmth of his body pressing down on her as if he is really there. This is the third night she has woken from such dreams, panting and delirious with want for him. 

She rubs her face vigorously, trying to clear the haze of lust that is clinging to her. Has it really only been three days since their struggle? Three days since he visited her in the night, intentions unknown?

She does not believe now he was really there to kill her. If he was, he would have done it. He would have squeezed the life from her as she lay under his hands. She feels molten heat slide through her at the remembrance of being trapped underneath him. She had not been afraid. That had surprised her. She had not been afraid of him the entire time. 

Instead, it had felt like a game, like some twisted dance they somehow secretly enjoyed. The fighting, the anger, the violence; she hates it but at the same time it excites her. Makes her feel more alive then she has in two long years. Since Aric.

Her scars twitch, and any remaining heat in her vanishes. Her scars. Her gift from the man she thought was her one great love. Ivar had seen them. He had not said anything cruel, as expected, but he had seen them. The thought unnerves her.

She gets out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the rest of the house. There is no way she will be able to return to sleep now. She sighs, feeling the stickiness between her thighs. She should bathe. So she wraps her cloak around her and sets out. 

One of Queen Laegertha's women had told her about a small hot spring in the hills outside Kattegat. She makes her way in the direction the woman had pointed, wrapping her cloak tighter against the chill morning air. It is barely dawn, the sun just casting the faintest pink rays on the horizon. Kattegat is just starting to stir, people coming out of their houses, getting ready to tackle the day's work. She is glad once she reaches the town's edge. She does not wish to speak to anyone this morning.

She walks for a while before she hears the faint gurgle of the spring. She speeds up her pace, anxious to soothe her now aching muscles in the warm water. But when she reaches the bushes at the edge of the pool, she stops abruptly. Someone is already there, she can hear the rustle of clothes and the soft grunting of breathing as they undress. She peeks through the hedge, curious to see who it is. 

She has to catch herself before she tumbles over in shock.

Ivar sits at the edge of the pool, wrestling with his breeches as he tries to ease them over his crippled legs. He has already shed his tunic, and she sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of his bare torso. He is all muscle, hard and toned from years of use. His chest is miles of smooth tanned skin, with the smallest trail of dark hair disappearing down underneath his navel. She is struck with the sudden urge to trace that trail with her tongue.

She cannot help but watch as he finally gets his pants off, exposing his legs. They do not look as bad as she thought they would. The skin is gnarled and the muscles are diminished, but they are not as twisted or ugly as they could be. She averts her eyes as he slides into the pool, her cheeks flaming. Although she is desperately curious as to what is between his crippled legs, she still has some shred of decency. 

She hears him hiss in relief as he is immersed in the pool. She should leave. She should let him bathe in peace but she cannot move. 

A crow suddenly caws right next to her. She shrieks loudly and looses her balance, falling clumsily out of the shrubs and into the clearing.

She hears Ivar shout in surprise as she hits the ground hard. Groaning softly in pain, she pushes herself into a sitting position and chances an embarrassed glance towards him. 

He's still sitting in the pool, one hand clenched around a small axe as he stares at her in shock. The rising sun glints off the rivulets of water running down his chest, and she has to tear her eyes away before he catches her staring. 

"What are you doing here?" His voice is more perplexed than angry, but he does not let go of his weapon. 

She takes a deep breath. "I was coming to bathe and didn't know anyone was here," she says, looking at the ground. 

"So you decided to stay and stare at the cripple?" Surprisingly, there is no anger in his tone. Yet. 

"I barely saw your legs," she sniffs, busying herself with dusting dirt off her nightgown. "And you have already seen my back. So fair is fair."

"It is hardly fair. You have also seen me naked. Fair is fair if you return the favour." 

She looks up, mouth falling open in shock. "What?"

He nods to her clothes. "Take those off and get in." 

She feels a flush spread over her entire body. Was he being serious? To be unclothed in his presence, the two of them alone in the water....the molten heat from earlier returns to her belly.

"I will not," she says a little shakily. "I will just come back later."

"No you will not," he says, twirling his axe between deft fingers. "You will get in now. Or I will come over there and make you."

The heat inside her intensifies . The commanding tone of his voice melts her bones, making her remember her dream. He had been commanding there, too, his voice full of rough authority. She surpresses a shudder. Odin above, that voice sliding over her skin, hot and dark and sinful...

He raises his eyebrows at her. "I am waiting. And I am not a patient man."

"You will just try to drown me," she stalls, standing up on somewhat shaky legs.

"Are you afraid, hellcat?" He asks with a wicked grin. 

He is teasing her. It is a side of him she has not seen yet, a far cry from his usual hostility. What has him in such a mood this morning? She does not know, but she will not let him have the upper hand. He wants her to get in? Fine. She is no coward.

"I am not afraid," she juts her chin defiantly.

She unclasps her cloak and tosses it aside. Before she can get too nervous, she shimmies out of her nightgown and slides into the water. It's warm and pleasant. She looks at Ivar, who is staring at her like he cannot quite believe she listened to him. She cannot quite believe it either.

"Happy?" she quips, sitting herself on a rock and trying desperately not to think about the fact that he is sitting naked not 6 feet from her. And also the fact that, however briefly, he has just seen her body. 

He arranges his features into a mask of cool indifference. "Not really. You are no different than any other girl. I am not impressed."

She feels her heart fall in disappointment. Has he been with many women? She had thought maybe his legs kept women from his bed, but perhaps she is wrong. Maybe he has seen many women naked and she is nothing special. 

"Good," she says, trying to look bored. "I did not find you that impressive either."

It is easily the biggest lie she has ever told.

He places his axe down on the grass beside the pool. "My legs did not make you want to swoon and fall into my arms?"

His voice is still light, but a shadow has fallen over his eyes. Her heart gives a painful throb. Clearly he is unaware of how heart wrenchingly beautiful he is. She wishes she had the courage to tell him. Or show him.

"If I am not swooning, it is not because of your legs. It is because you are an insufferable bastard," she says instead. "Your legs did not look that terrifying to me."

"They make me a burden," his voice turns bitter and petulant. "Ugly or not, they remind everyone how I cannot walk. How I cannot fight in battles. How I am cursed."

She looks up at him, watching his face continue to deepen with grief. She frowns. Does he not know that his legs do not define him? That they do not hinder his ability for glory? That he is wasting time and energy moping over something beyond his control? He will be great, she just knows it. He will live on in legend long after he ascends to Valhalla. She finds herself becoming annoyed. 

"You should not worry so much about your legs," she says matter of factly. "There is no point moaning about them when you cannot change them."

He scowls at that. "You do not tell me what to do, woman. How dare you assume to know what I should do and think?"

She rolls her eyes. "Because you are being a child about them. You did not need your legs to insult me, or attack me. You do not need legs to be smart, to be cunning or to plan. You have a strong mind, Ivar. That is more important than legs that work."

"Ha," he snorts derisively. "The hellcat thinks she knows everything. As all women do."

"You men are all the same," she hisses, the anticipation of their angry dance slowly simmering under her skin. Of course they are here, spitting venom at each other. It always ends up here. "You never want to listen. You are the ones who think you know everything."

He leans forward, blue eyes sparking. "I will not be bossed around by anyone, least of all you." 

She leans forward too, letting the fire in his eyes burn into her. "You are nothing more than a spoiled prince. Thinking he is above everyone else!"

"I am above you!" He growls, lips curling into a sneer. "I am above you in every way. I am a son of Ragnar!"

She scoffs. "You may be a son of Ragnar, but you are the most difficult, infuriating, entitled man I have ever met!" 

"And you," he snarls, so close now she can practically feel the heat spilling off his skin, "will be the death of me."

And before she can even think of a reply, he grabs her shoulders and crushes his mouth to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops I did a thing.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Freja share a heated moment, but a lifetime of anger and self loathing is hard to overcome. 
> 
> Tw: Nothing really, just a lot of angst and self loathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't sleep last night so here's another chapter for you guys! I still can't believe the response this story has gotten. Y'all are a bunch of sweeties!

The world stops moving. 

The breeze stills in the trees. The birds stop their symphony of sound. His heart ceases to beat.

She is still under his lips, frozen and unmoving. A statue of ice. Something painful tightens in his chest. 

This is a mistake. He should not have given in to the raging desire in his blood. From the moment she had disrobed and slid into the water, he had been hopelessly lost. Lost in the beauty of her wet skin, the soft curves of her body, the blazing of her grey eyes as she countered him blow for blow. He had fought with himself and lost. In the moment, there was no resisting her pull, the inexplicable hold she had somehow cast upon him. 

But she is not responding. Her lips are pressed in a hard line. And he is a fool. A fool to think she could ever want him, want this. Feeling sick, he moves to pull away. 

But then, a miracle. Her lips part slightly, a quiet, breathy "oh" slipping through them, and her hands come up to cradle his face as she yields to him. 

She tastes like honeyed mead, sweet and heady. Her lips are soft and pliant, and he cannot help the groan that slips out. She responds by pulling his face closer, mouth opening to slide her tongue against his. 

Something in the air shifts, and he feels a primal urge bubble up from somewhere deep within himself. He needs more, more, more. He wants to kiss her until he cannot breath. He wants to put his hands all over every inch of her. He wants to touch and taste until he is drunk on her, and then come back for more. 

Their kiss turns desperate, wanting. He bites down hard on her plump bottom lip, and is rewarded with a needy mewl. He does it again, and she practically wails against his mouth, digging her nails into the side of his face. He grasps at her shoulders, needing to pull her closer, needing to feel her heartbeat pressed against his own. 

Her hands leave his face so her arms can lock around his neck. She pulls herself into his lap in one smooth motion, and that is when he remembers.

Margarethe crying. How he had tried so hard but could not satisfy himself or her. How he can never give this magnificent creature in his arms what she deserves. Love, pleasure, and perhaps one day, children. His mind is suddenly filled with the image of her holding her rounded belly, swollen with his child. The want that tears through him is so painful he lets out a distressed gasp against her mouth. She stills in his arms, immediately sensing that something is wrong. Her lips detach from his, but he keeps his eyes closed. He cannot look at her. Not in this moment. 

Cool fingers stroke the side of his face. "Ivar? What's wrong?"

He grits his teeth at the soft concern in her voice. He can feel her own smooth, strong legs against his useless ones and he feels the urge to vomit. Something so pure should not touch something so dirty.

"Ivar," her lips press against his nose, his cheek, his jaw. "Ivar, please say something."

He cannot help but lean into her touch. Odin, if only he had been born differently. If only his stupid father had listened when his mother had warned him. If only he was like every other man. He could lay her down on the grass beside the pool and take her. She would gasp and whine and beg and they would find their pleasure together. After, he would lay her on his chest and tangle his normal legs with hers, and they would be happy. 

But he is Ivar the Boneless, and the gods curse him to the very depths of the earth.

"I can't do this," he says, and feels his heart break as he does. Her fingers still on his face, and he hears her intake a sharp breath. 

"You can't do what?" She asks, her voice cautious. 

He opens his eyes. She is so close he can see every pore, every small blemish of her face. Her eyes aren't completely grey, he notes absently. They have tiny flecks of green in them. 

He takes his hands from her shoulders and places them on her legs. "I can't do this," he says with more force, and gently pushes her off of him.

Realization of what he is saying dawns on her face. Her eyes widen, her mouth forms a tiny o of surprise. 

"You can't do this?" She repeats, hands dropping from his face. 

He swallows forcefully. "No, I can't. This was a mistake. It should never have happened."

Lies. 

The light dims behind her grey eyes. Her face crumples in on itself, hurt clearly written across the pale skin. 

"A mistake," she says, and he can hear the tremor in her voice. "Just a mistake. Of course..."

She's slowly backing away from him, and every inch she puts between them is like a knife slicing into his skin. He wants to pull her back, wants to enfold her in his arms and tell her he does not mean it. 

Instead, he fixes her with his coolest stare. "I got carried away. Nothing more." 

Another brief flash of pain, and then he sees her harden. Her eyes get steely and she sets her jaw. 

"Of course," she says harshly, and her abrupt tone gnaws at his already raw heart. "Why would you want to kiss me anyways. I'm just a silly Jarl's daughter, a stupid girl beneath your rank." She climbs out of the pool, hastily throwing on her nightgown. It clings to her damp body. He averts his eyes. It is too painful to look at what he is pushing away. 

He hears the rustling of her putting on her cloak. "I am sorry for bothering you this morning," her voice is dripping with venom. "In fact, I think I am sorry I ever met you."

He looks at her then, in all her wild fury. A goddess of destruction, sent to destroy his very being. To shred the skin from his bones and tear his heart still beating from his chest. And despite every cruel word, every violent act between them, he knows now he would offer himself to her, over and over again. A sacrifice on her altar, a reverent worshiper at her shrine.

"Here," she snaps, pulling an object from the folds of her cloak. It's his knife. "It's a terrible knife. Dull and corroded and useless, like your heart. Goodbye, Ivar."

She tosses the knife into the pool, turns on her heel and sweeps away through the trees. He watches the knife sink underneath the water, her final words reverberating inside his skull. He wants to rage and rage but he is too numb. 

He stays in the water, staring at the place where the knife has sunk until Ubbe comes to find him. 

"There you are! I've been looking for you for hours. Come on little brother, we have plans to finalize."

Ah yes, plans for Mother's revenge. They seem almost unimportant now. Killing Laegertha will bring him only fleeting pleasure. A bandage to cover one of the gaping wounds dug into his heart. Father, Mother, her. Each one raw and bleeding, each one deep and jagged. 

"Ivar are you listening? Get out of there and come back. Do you need me to carry you?"

"No," he snaps, Ubbe's words slicing through the thick fog around his mind. "I am not some lame mule. I will get back myself."

Ubbe frowns. "Are you sure, it's a long way-"

"I'm fine! I crawled here, I will crawl back!" Like the worm that he is, belly to the dust for all eternity. "I don't need your help!"

Ubbe shrugs. "Suit yourself." He saunters off back towards Kattegat, whistling as he goes.

He spends another minute in the water, before heaving himself out and getting dressed. His limbs feel leaden, like he is being weighed down by the very memories of what has just occurred. He is sure he will fall into anger later, in his bed when the darkness closes in and he is reminded of how alone he truly is. He will curse her and himself and the gods until his throat is raw.

He looks one last time at the pool, the water bubbling gently, then turns and begins crawling back home. 

He does not retrieve his knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one hates Ivar more than Ivar.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heartbroken after Ivar's rejection, Freja decides to drown her sorrows. A harrowing incident and some ale may lead to some much needed communication.
> 
> TW: drinking, attempted sexual assault, blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with this chapter! I had a super busy weekend at work and was too exhausted to write. I had some inspiration today and hopefully you guys like the product! Again, thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, I could just hug you all!

Gudrik asks her on the fourth night if she is having nightmares again. 

She had horrible nightmares for almost a year after Aric. She would wake up screaming, clawing at herself as she tried to rid herself of the remembrance of him. Of his hands on her body, the crack of the leather as it snapped across her back. More than one night either Gudrik or her older sister Solvej had to sleep in bed with her to chase away the terrors. 

She tells Gudrik she is only dreaming about the coming sack of England. That she wakes up with tears on her face because she worries for him, for Father. He swallows the lie easily, patting her head like big brothers do and reassuring her that it will take more than a few Saxons to cut him or Father down. 

She does not wish to tell him the truth. Of how she dreams of blue eyes and warm lips and the sting of rejection. Of how the man who is slowly capturing her heart does not want her. Of how much she aches and aches but there is no relief. 

She had not expected to want to love again. After Aric, she had closed herself off, determined never to let another worm their way under her skin. But Ivar had done so instantly. He had enraptured her from the moment she lay eyes upon him. His rage, his cunning mind, even his stupid arrogance. Not to mention his sheer physical allure. It all drew her in. And when he had kissed her, she had thought that maybe she had impacted him, too.

But she had been a fool. Poor little Freja; always hopeful, always disappointed. She had been so angry at him at the pool, but now she is just sad and heartbroken. 

She only sees him once in those four days, in the Great Hall. She's sitting with her father, toying with her meal and pretending to eat something when he and Ubbe come stalking in, demanding justice of Queen Lagertha for their dead mother. She hides behind her father and watches. He's glorious, eyes malicious and voice commanding as he challenges Lagertha. She clenches her fists in irritation as the Queen dismisses him, telling him she will not fight him. The Queen assumes Ivar is as useless and helpless as his legs. Freja finds part of herself wishing one day the Queen will know she is wrong.

Now, she finds herself sitting at a fire with her Father and brother, celebrating the return of Bjorn Ironside. Him, along with Ivar's other brother Hvitserk, just so happened to return precisely when Ivar was threatening the Queen. She does not wish to be here. She wants to be alone in her bed where she does not have to talk and pretend to be happy. Where there is utterly no chance of catching a glimpse of what she wants most. 

But she is a dutiful daughter, so she sits by her father's side, nodding and smiling and pretending. At least she can drink. She's into her fourth cup of ale and getting pretty drunk when he arrives. 

He slinks in from the shadows, like a wraith made of darkness. She can see the sinews in his arms stretch and pull as he sidles up beside Ubbe, who leans down to exchange words with him. His skin looks unbelievably golden in the firelight, his eyes as blue as ever. Longing plucks at her heartstrings. How did she let herself begin to fall for this man? Why did he have to reject her? She had always been told she was pretty enough. Perhaps he does not like all their fighting? No, that is not it, she thinks. He is a man who thrives on conflict and grasping for power. Maybe there is another woman? She pushes that thought away as soon as it arrives. She does not want to imagine him in someone else's arms. It makes her want to be sick. 

He has not looked at her once since he arrived. She suddenly feels angry, the alcohol in her system fueling her fire. What exactly is wrong with her? What excuse could he have other than he is simply not interested? But she refuses to believe he wouldn't kiss her like that unless he wants her in some way. She touches her lips lightly, remembering how he had kissed her with so much passion she felt as if she would burst into flame. The sort of kiss a couple shares before they crawl beneath the furs. Surely it meant something to him. It had to. She should confront him and get him to confess, the ale in her system tells her. Make him explain just exactly what had happened in the pool. 

But she is drunk, and she is tired. And, she notices as she glances around blearily, Ivar has gone. So she resolves with her drunken mind she will seek him out tomorrow. She gets to her feet haltingly, mumbles a good bye to her father, and stumbles off into the dark towards her bed. 

She's maybe halfway there when a hand reaches out from a dark alley and pulls her in. 

She tries to scream but the large dirty hand clamps over her mouth. Another huge arm wraps around her, pinning her to a body. The stench of sour ale and piss fills her nostrils and she gags. 

"Where you going, princess?" A coarse voice slurs in her ear. She squirms away from the hot putrid breath, but her assailant just chuckles. 

"Come now, little bird. You and me are gonna have ourselves some fun."

He throws her abruptly to the ground. She barely has time to register the fall before he is on top of her, meaty hands starting to ruck up her dress. His face is unkind, heavy set dark eyes with a thin mouth and a scraggly beard. She lets out a panicked scream and he slaps her so hard her teeth rattle in her skull. 

"Shut up or I'll slit your pretty little throat," he growls.

She feels the air constrict inside her lungs. His unkempt face reminds her of one so long ago. She wants to fight but she can't. Her drunken limbs won't move. She can't breathe, every breath coming in a shallow rattle. Tears stream down her face as she tries to gasp for air, her hands clawing pitifully at the man above her. 

"Just relax," the man hisses, "it will all be over- hhhuuuhhh!"

Without warning, blood spurts out of the man's throat, spraying all over her face and neck. She feels the weight of his heavy body being torn off of her, and she finally can suck in a huge heaving breath. She can hear the man somewhere beside her, gurgling and gasping as the blood pours from his slit throat. Then he is quiet. She closes her eyes and just sobs. He is dead. But whom does she have to thank? 

Hands grab her shoulders and she is hauled into a sitting position. She cries harder and tries to move away from whoever it is, but then a familiar voice speaks. 

"Freja! Are you okay?"

The voice washes over her like waves upon the shore, like sunlight over a spring meadow. She opens her blood crusted eyes and thinks in that moment she has never seen a more beautiful sight. Ivar stares back at her, eyes worries and anxious. 

She lets out another large sob and flings herself at him. He catches her easily, arms going around her to cradle her against his chest. She presses her face into the warm skin of his neck and cries in relief. He strokes her hair with a surprising tenderness, his mouth murmuring soft words of comfort into her ear. 

"It's okay, it's okay," he croons, rocking her gently as he speaks. "I've got you, mitt hjarta. You are safe. He cannot hurt you."

"Ivar," she wails, small hands clutching his tunic tightly. "I couldn't fight. I tried, I tried! I had too much to drink! I forgot how to be a hellcat! I forgot and he-he-"

"Hush," his arms tighten around her. "It is not your fault. He had no right to lay his hands upon you in that way. You are still the most fearsome hellcat I have ever met."

She chokes out a laugh, suddenly feeling exhausted. She wipes her eyes on his tunic. 

"I'm tired," she sighs, the last of her tears drying upon her face. "And very dirty." 

"Can you walk?" Ivar asks her. She nods sleepily. "Then come with me."

She manages to stumble along behind him a little ways until they reach the house of the Ragnarssons. She blinks wearily as they go inside, feeling as if she may fall down asleep at any moment. 

Ivar finds her a wet cloth and she wipes the man's blood off of her face. It feels good, like she is wiping the experience and the feeling of his hands off of her. When she is done Ivar nudges her gently towards a bed. She strips off her outer dress, leaving her in her thin underdress and gratefully crawls under the furs. 

She can hear Ivar cleaning himself up, and a thought suddenly pushes itself through her tired mind. 

"Why are you being so kind to me?" She asks softly. "I thought you hated me. I'm a mistake, aren't I?"

She hears him breath in sharply. "I never said that I hated you."

"You might as well have," she mumbles grumpily. "You pushed me away. You didn't want me. Why don't you want me?"

There is silence for a moment. 

"What does it matter to you?" He finally says, voice unsure. 

She sighs. "Because I want you. Only you. All the time."

Another pause. "You shouldn't."

"Says who?" She can feel sleep tugging at her, but the ale still in her system keeps her talking. "You are everything I want and need. I don't care about your legs. I like how we fight. I like how you kiss me. I like how you make me feel alive."

"What if-" his voice is choked, heavy. "What if there is something else that should keep you from me? Something I cannot give you?"

She closes her eyes, snuggling down into the pillow. "Whatever it is, it won't stop how I feel. But," she lets out a huge yawn, "I am tired now. We can talk in the morning. Come to bed, Ivar."

"With you?" His voice is surprised. 

"Yes, with me," she says, patting the bed beside her. "It's very lonely up here and I may have nightmares unless you chase them away. Please?"

She waits a minute, then hears him crawling to the bed. He heaves himself up on it and lies down, keeping plenty of space between them. She opens her eyes and sees him staring at the ceiling, an almost timid expression on his face. She sighs and shuffles over until she can snuggle up against him, her head resting on his wonderfully bare chest. 

He stiffens for a moment, then hesitantly wraps his arms around her. She lets out a pleased hum. 

"Much better," she mumbles, burrowing her face in his chest with a smile. She can hear his heart thumping underneath her, a rhythmic lullaby. She presses a kiss right over the spot. 

"Goodnight Ivar," she says softly as she closes her eyes, feeling perfectly warm and safe in his arms. He tightens his hold on her, and she swears she can feel his lips brush the top of her head. 

"Goodnight Freja," he whispers into her hair. "You are safe. Sleep well, mitt hjarta. My little hellcat." 

She smiles into his chest one last time, and drifts off to the sound of his beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I headcanon that although Ivar is generally pretty abrasive, when he finds the one for him he can be very tender and sweet. Hence the direction this chapter went. Of course he can only be that way in private, wouldn't want anyone to know deep deep down he's just a softie for his lady ;)
> 
> Mitt hjarta- my heart (in Swedish, but I like it so I'm going to use it!)


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, Ivar puts it all on the table, and Freya makes a decision. 
> 
> TW: none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best, here is another chapter just for you!! Please tell me if you liked the way it went, it was a little difficult to decide on the direction. Love and hugs!

He barely sleeps.

Mostly it is because he cannot believe she is here. In his bed, in his arms. He had never believed this would be happening. Something only found in his dreams. He is partially convinced when morning comes, he will indeed find himself to be dreaming and she will vanish from his embrace. Or worse, he will wake to find her horrified to be in his bed. 

Did she speak the truth? Did she truly care about him, want to be with him like she said? She had been full of ale, but he knows sometimes one's most hidden thoughts can be revealed when drink is involved. And she had been furious at him for pushing her away. The idea that she desires him as greatly as he desires her is almost too much.

But will she still desire him if he tells her his secret? He does not know. And he is utterly terrified. 

He has to tell her. Last night had opened his eyes to that. He could have lost her, that vile piece of shit killing her after he was finished with her. His blood is boiling in his veins just remembering her struggling underneath him. He thanks the gods he was there, that he could do something to protect her. Like a man should protect his woman. 

His woman. That is what she is now, whether she accepts or rejects him. His Freja, his little hellcat. 

She gives a sigh just then, and rolls off him to curl up next to him, back against his side. He follows her on instinct, turning himself so he can fit one arm under her head and one over her waist, his chest pressing against her back. She makes a happy little sound, one small hand clutching at his larger one in her sleep. His heart gives a funny jump, and he buries his face in her hair and prays. He begs the gods to let him keep this, keep her. He asks for many more nights spent wrapped around her, for warm kisses and her smile and the scent of her skin on his. For all the gods to finally smile upon one they have cursed for so long. He pleads silently until he is exhausted, and finally closes his eyes to sleep. 

When he wakes, the sun is shining brightly. It casts golden light on the woman in his arms, and he lets out a sigh of relief. Not a dream. She is still here, real and breathing in his arms. There is still a mountain to climb, but at least he did not imagine last night. 

"Good morning."

He nearly jumps out of his skin. She rolls over to face him, faint smile on her lips. "Sorry, I did not mean to startle you."

"I thought you were still asleep," he says accusingly. 

"I woke not long before you," she replies, reaching up to gently stroke a finger down his cheek. He feels his body shudder in response. "I was just enjoying the quiet. And I was very comfortable and did not wish to move."

She places her whole hand against his face now, and he can't help but close his eyes and lean into her touch. Savour it as much as he can before it is possibly ripped away from him forever. 

"Thank you for last night," she whispers, and he opens his eyes to see her grey ones glassy. "I am not sorry you killed him. I was reminded of...my past and I could not fight. Thank you for doing it for me."

"No one touches you like that," he murmurs, mesmerized by the way the sun is shining on her skin. "He deserved more. A slow, painful death. A death of a thousand cuts. Or a blood eagle."

She huffs out a breathless laugh, the hand on his face sliding up into his hair. "My angry, bloody hero," she sighs, raking her nails gently across his scalp. He lets out an embarrassing purr-like sound, and she grins wickedly. 

"Who's the cat now?" She teases, and he growls playfully at her. She starts to do it again, leaning in towards him, then stops suddenly, a look of apprehension crossing her face. 

"Ivar," she withdraws her hand from his hair and sits up, and he nearly whines at the loss of contact. "Before I make a fool of myself and kiss you stupid, I need to why you pushed me away at the pool."

His heart freezes in his chest. He sits up too, slowly, and looks anywhere but her. 

"I did it for your own good," he mumbles, settling on staring at his hands resting on top of the furs. "You do not want to be with me. You should not want to be with me."

"I think that is something I can decided for myself, thank you," her tone is waspish. "I am perfectly able to decide whether or not I wish to be with a man."

"You would have found out, and you would have left me," he says, annoyed by her snark. "Why would I put myself through that?"

"Oh so now you are just thinking of yourself," she snaps, and once again, their angry dance begins. "Who cares how poor Freja feels. Why bother to ask her what she thinks?"

"You speak of things you don't understand," he growls. 

"Then help me to," she demands. "I have spent days thinking of all the reasons why, including that you simply don't care about me. But I refuse to believe any of them unless I hear it from your own mouth."

He remains silent, struggling with himself. He wants to tell her, but the embarrassment, the pain...

"Fine," she says angrily, throwing the furs off and climbing out of bed. "I can't keep doing this, Ivar. I can't keep having my heart broken-"

"I cannot make love to you."

She stills at the end of the bed, and he chances a glance up at her. She is staring at him as if she has not quite heard him. 

"What?"

He grits his teeth. "I said I cannot make love to you. I tried, once," suddenly he finds the whole story spilling out in a rush, "with a slave girl. I could get it, um, somewhat ready, but I could not satisfy her or myself. She cried and begged for me to stop. She did not want me. I am an impotent cripple. No woman wants a man who cannot satisfy her or give her children!"

He glares at her as he finishes, daring her to contradict him. She simply stares at him, a funny look on her face. 

"Well?" He is losing patience, heart hammering in his chest as he waits for the inevitable rejection. 

"You tried to push me away because you think you cannot have sex," she says slowly. "And there is no other reason? You care for me, you find me pleasing to look at, you do not mind that half the time we tear each other apart?"

"Of course there is no other reason," he retorts. "You are beautiful. More beautiful than any woman I have ever laid eyes on. I killed a man for you last night, so clearly I care about you. As for our fighting, I find-for Odin's sake, woman!"

His cheek stings where she has slapped him. She kneels on the bed in front of him, eyes wide and nostrils flared.

"You insufferable bastard!" She shrieks, raising a hand again. This time he is quick enough to stop her, catching her wrist before she can hit him again. She struggles against his hold. "I spent days thinking you didn't want me because there was something wrong with me! Why couldn't you just say something? Do you think me so shallow, that I would cast aside my feelings just because we may not be able to be together?"

He quickly grabs her other hand as it flies towards his face, pinning them both against his chest. "I did not know how you felt about me! And is not lovemaking a very important part of a relationship between a man and his woman?"

"You tried once! Once!" She digs her nails into his skin. "That's like firing a bow for the first time, missing the target and declaring you cannot become an archer! These things take time, practice! To give up after one time, Ivar, that is ridiculous!"

"If I can, are you willing to practice with me? To try over and over again? Even though it may all be for naught?" He winces as her nails dig even further into his chest. 

She gives him such a blazing look the breath leaves his lungs. "Yes. You are worth it. Whether you can make love to me or not, every moment with you is worth it."

And with that, she lunges forward and kisses him. 

He groans into her mouth, letting go of her hands so he can reach up and cradle her face. It has been too long since he has tasted her. She is as sweet as ever, lips parting underneath his with a needy mewl that makes his whole body shake with desire. 

She wants him. She wants him even if he cannot take her. Even if they try over and over again and he never can do it, she still wants him. And he believes her. He believes her and it makes his heart feel like it is flying. He should thank the gods but he cannot think of anything right now but how he wants to kiss every inch of her. 

He tears his lips from hers to press hot, open mouthed kisses to the creamy skin of her neck. She gasps and wiggles herself closer to him, hands running all over his chest, shoulders and arms. His skin burns where she touches him. 

"Ivar," she whines as he sucks a dark bruise under her jawline. "Ivar, my Ivar, mine..."

The possessive words make him moan as he scrapes his teeth against her pulse point. "All yours," he growls against her skin. "As you are mine, little hellcat. My own. Mitt hjarta. No one else's."

"No one else's," she echoes, hands sliding up to bury themselves in his hair, nails scraping along his scalp. 

His shudders and falls back onto the bed, pulling her down with him. Their lips meet again as she moves to straddle him. He slides one hand to the front of her underdress, fingers toying with the laces. She mumbles a frantic "yes, yes" against his mouth, and he can feel his excitement start to rise as he tugs on the laces and-

And there are voices coming up the path outside. Loud voices. 

They freeze against each other, and the tension suddenly bleeds out of the room. 

"Damn my bastard brothers," he groans, recognizing the voices. "Damn them, damn them, damn them!"

Freja just buries her face in his neck and giggles. "Do not worry, we can finish some other time. I should be getting back anyways, Father will be worried." She sits up. "I will go out the back door. I am not ashamed," she says, seeing the look in his eyes. "But your brothers will prod and ask questions and you are in no mood for that."

He sits up as she gets off of him, quickly scooping up her dress from last night and throwing it on. 

"You won't change your mind? About us?" He hates the vulnerable tremor in his voice, hates that he feels he has to ask. 

Her eyes are soft as she leans in and presses a gentle kiss to his lips. "Odin himself could not drag me from you," she whispers against his mouth, and then she is gone, flitting out the back entrance just as his brothers come through the front. He tries to school his features but he can't help but be smiling.

"Still in bed, little brother?" Ubbe asks as they all tromp in. "It's late, and we have battle plans to make. Better get up."

"Why are you smiling like that?" Sigurd adds, looking at him suspiciously. 

Ivar just grins wider. 

"Good dreams."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brothers. Always interrupting!


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freja and Ivar are finally together, but obstacles loom ahead that may threaten their newfound happiness. 
> 
> Tw: mild sexual content (like very mild), blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew worked hard on this one! When I was thinking of how I wanted this story to go I had a million ideas, but I think I have finally nailed one down! I'm happy with the decision, hopefully you all will enjoy! Your support is everything to me :)

Gudrik is suspicious.

She tries to temper her giddiness as she goes about her day, but it is difficult. She cannot help but smile. She cannot help but have a little skip in her step. She feels happier and lighter than she has felt in ages. And her very observant brother notices. 

"You did not come back last night," he comments as they take the evening meal together in their house. Father is thankfully snoring away in the back, still not quite recovered from the night before. 

She takes a bite of stew and tries to act nonchalant. "So?"

"So that has not happened in...a while," Gudrik chooses his words carefully. "You are also acting unusually. Since when do you skip like a giddy child?"

"What is it to you?" She asks, shooting him a look. "Skipping is hardly a punishable offence."

"Freja," Gudrik's face takes on a serious look she does not like. "I am glad that you seem to be, er, over certain things. But do I have to remind you why Father brought you along?"

She scowls. "No, you do not. I remember that conversation perfectly well, thank you."

Gudrik sighs, taking her hand. "Freja, you know Father just wants the best for you. All I am saying is that it is unwise to make...attachments. Unless of course, the attachment is one Father would approve of?"

He looks at her expectantly, and she feels anger roil hot in her belly. She snatches her hand from his and stands up.

"I am not a prize cow to be sold," she hisses. "Father thinks he can just pawn me off to whomever he wants, but I will not have it. If I choose to make an 'attachment', then I will. It is nobody's business who it is or if it's even happening!"

She rushes out of the house before Gudrik can say anything else. She does not know where she is going, but she just needs to get out.

She knows perfectly well why Father has brought her. It is every Jarl's dream to have his daughter married off to a son of Ragnar, to be part of the legacy. She is not here to pay respects to the deceased King. She is here to be betrothed to one of his sons. 

"You will be a part of greatness, my daughter," he had said. "You will be taken care of, you will be the mother of many strong sons. You are a good catch. I am sure one of the three of them will have you."

Three of them. Ubbe, Hvitserk or Sigurd. Not Ivar. Never Ivar. 

She sighs, meandering through the paths of Kattegat aimlessly. The only one her father will never approve of is the one who holds her heart. The gods must be laughing at her. 

She suddenly wishes she could crawl into Ivar's embrace, nestle herself against him and forget everything else. The previous night, sleeping next to him, she had never felt more content. And the morning....she shivers in remembrance. Her hands go to touch the scarf she has wrapped high around her neck, hiding the dark bruise Ivar given her. She does not remember the last time she wanted someone's hands and mouth on her so much. And being able to touch him, to feel the powerful muscles under his smooth skin, it was enough to make her feel drunk all over again.

His confession had stunned her, but she is not deterred. What more fun could they have than to experiment, to test things out together? She is sure with some time, he can find a way to experience some form of pleasure. And she is positive, with a little practice, he will become very proficient at satisfying her. After all, he does not like to fail and, she giggles internally to herself, he has a very wicked mouth. 

"You look very deep in thought."

She startles, looking up to find Sigurd walking beside her. He smiles at her reassuringly. "Sorry, I did not mean to frighten you."

"It is alright," she recovers, plastering a smile on her face. "I am prone to getting lost in my thoughts. I should pay more attention to my surroundings."

"You should," his smile turns into a smirk. "There are many very nice things to look at in Kattegat."

Like your brother, she wants to say, but she simply waves a hand and laughs. "Anything in particular you'd like to point out?"

"You," his smirk widens, and she has to try very hard not to look shocked. Sigurd has barely spoken a word to her the whole time she has been here, and now he is...flirting? 

"Oh, um," she flounders, trying to think of something to say. Sigurd just laughs. 

"You fluster easily," he says. "It is endearing. You remind me of a spring doe, caught in the sight of a hunter."

Her hackles raise. A spring doe? What does he take her for, some sort of soft blushing maiden? Ivar would never call her something so ridiculous. 

"Thank you," she says shortly, attempting to remain polite but find a way to leave this increasingly absurd conversation. "You flatter me. Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Will you come sup with me in the Great Hall?" Sigurd interrupts her, laying a hand on her arm. It takes everything in her not to push it off then slap him. 

"No thank you, I have already taken my meal with my brother," she is glad for the excuse. "Now, I really must be getting home. Father needs tending, he drank too much last night for someone of his years."

She does not wait for a reply, simply hurries off into the twilight. Odin help her, where did that come from? Sigurd had not shown any interest in her before. Now he asks her to eat with him, and tries to compliment her. She shakes her head. She has a sneaking suspicion her father and brother may have something to do with this, and that this will not be Sigurd's last attempt. But she will not dwell on it tonight. And she definitely will not tell Ivar. He would probably kill his brother just for looking at her. She rolls her eyes to herself. Possessive bastard.

As if some invisible thread is tugging at her, she makes her way to the Ragnarsson house. She has no way of knowing if Ivar is there, but it is the first place to look. She wants more than ever now to curl up with him, to spite her father and brother and anyone else who is threatening her happiness. 

The house is quiet upon her arrival, but she can see flames burning brightly inside. Hoping it is him and not one of his brothers, she softly opens the door. 

She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees him sitting on the rug by the fire, staring into the flames. She shuts the door, and he looks up quickly. His face melts into a breathtaking smile. 

"Hello," he says, opening his arms. She rushes into them happily, sighing in contentment as she is enfolded in his warm embrace. She lifts her face up expectantly and is rewarded with a deep kiss that melts her bones into jelly. 

"I missed you all day," he mumbles into her mouth. His hands pluck at the scarf around her neck. "What's this for?"

She pulls back and gives him a playful glare. "Somebody gave me a very dark bruise this morning. I thought it would be best if my father wasn't aware of it's existence."

"Well take it off now," he growls. "I want to see it."

She obeys with a shiver. He forces her jaw up with one hand, taking a finger and running it over the darkened skin on her neck. 

"So pretty," he croons, leaning forward to scrape his teeth gently against it. She clutches at his shoulders and mewls. "So nice and dark against such milky, tender skin. Shall we see how easily you bruise elsewhere, little hellcat?"

She can only whine desperately as he forces her to extend her neck farther so he can latch his mouth right where her neck meets her shoulder. He bites hard, and she feels heat lance right through her as his teeth break the skin. He soothes the bite with a lick of his tongue, spreading a small smear of blood across her collarbone. 

"Ivar!" she gasps out, feeling the sticky liquid drying on her skin. 

"Even your blood tastes divine," he sighs, now busily sucking on her collarbone. She arches her back and squirms in his lap. She can feel him beginning to stiffen underneath her, which makes her blood boil with desire. She squirms harder, and he moans into her skin.

"Freja," he grabs her hips and pushes them down against his. She cries out, something hot and molten that she has not felt in a long time building inside of her.

Ivar continues to feast on her skin, moving down to the neckline of her dress. She is sure she is covered in dark love bites, but she does not care. She can't even think, can only gasp out his name as she rocks in his lap. 

"My beautiful little hellcat," his voice is dark and sinful against her. "I will cover you in marks until there is not one inch of you that does not show you are mine. All mine. All bruised and pretty, just for me."

He bites down just above her left breast as his hands push her hips down hard, and she shatters with a cry of his name. She has not felt like this in ages, has not released her desire in some time. He pulls her close as she shakes, pressing gentle kisses against her hairline. When she finally stops, she slumps against him, exhausted. 

"That has not happened in a while," she mumbles tiredly. 

He lets out a quiet chuckle. "I did not know a woman could find pleasure like that."

"You seemed to enjoy it too," she reaches a hand up to stroke his hair, and he lets out that wonderful purr like sound. 

"It was enjoyable," he agrees, leaning into her touch. "I respond easier to you than I have to...others. Perhaps there will be less practicing and more doing."

"Mmmm," she can only hum, curling closer to him as she continues to stroke his hair. They sit for a while in the quiet, before he breaks it with a nervous cough. 

"I did not...hurt you, did I?" He asks tentatively, and she immediately knows what he means. She pulls back slightly so she can look into his eyes. 

"No," she says firmly. "You are not like him. You may be a little rough, but I know you would never harm me. He did things because he wanted to see me suffer." She feels his hands stroke down her back, across her scars, and his eyes darken in rage. She rubs his scalp soothingly. "Everything you did just now brought me nothing but pleasure. But let us not talk of him tonight. One day, I want to tell you, but not tonight. Tonight, let's just be us."

He nods, an almost bashful smile crossing his face. It makes him look almost boyishly charming. "Us."

She leans in and kisses that lovely smile. "Us."

That kiss leads to many more, and they spend the evening enthusiastically repeating their actions from the rug in his bed. Ivar does not reach completion, but he responds more and more each time. When she tries to reach for him with her hand, he stops her and tells her she has done enough for him tonight, and he just wants to fall asleep with her in arms. 

She tiredly agrees (he may not have reached his end, but she has three times and that makes a girl tired), promising him on the morrow they will make new attempts at learning each other. He pulls her down to sprawl across his chest and tells her with a wicked grin he is looking forward to it. 

She falls asleep once again to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and strong under her ear. She expects to dream of him, of his mouth and his hands and that sinful voice.

She does not. 

Instead, she dreams she is a cat, chasing a strong, proud eagle as it soars through the air right above her. Every time she tries to catch it in her claws, it flies just slightly higher, out of reach. She meows in frustration, making to leap when suddenly she is howling in pain, a searing burn ripping through her. She looks down to see she is no longer a cat, but a doe, and there is blood pouring from an arrow sticking out of her chest, right though her heart. The eagle she had been chasing flies away, higher and higher until she cannot see it. The bushes rustle behind her, and she tears her eyes from the sky to see two figures step out from the woods. 

One is Sigurd, and he is smiling. But he does not hold the bow. 

It is her father who holds it. And as she watches, blood pouring from her wound, he nocks another arrow. But he does not shoot her again. He turns...

And he shoots the eagle right out of the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so two reasons why I picked Sigurd 
> 
> 1\. He seems to be the brother Ivar gets along the least with. They have the most friction. 
> 
> 2\. Honestly Sigurd just annoys me. I didn't really like his character that much, and it wasn't just because he hates Ivar. He just bothered me the most out of all the Ragnarssons. 
> 
> If you like Sigurd, that's totally cool. We love the characters we love, no right or wrong here!
> 
> Also if you are waiting for more fighting and drama, don't worry. It's coming ;)


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar sees something that makes him question everything. Freja makes a stunning confession.
> 
> Tw: mentions of past abuse, mentions of past sexual assault, blood, mild sexual content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys give me such motivation!! Enjoyed writing this chapter a lot, hope you guys like it. Ivar is just so fun to write, I love diving into his angry little mind. 
> 
> Ps please I hope you are checking out all the great Ivar fics on this site. Seriously there are some very talented writers out there!

He does not remember ever being so happy.

Every day he waits in anticipation, watching her from afar as she goes about her daily tasks. They agree not to be seen too much together in public for now. He knows her father would never approve of him, and he does not want to do anything that will take her away from him. So he watches, and he waits. But he is glad to wait, for it means he has something to look forward to.

And he does. Every night she comes to his bed, to his arms. Like his dreams but better. For now she is real, all warm soft flesh beneath his fingertips. They explore each other like only they can, sometimes gentle and teasing, sometimes desperate and rough. 

He discovers, to his pride, that he is a fast learner when it comes to pleasing his woman. It takes him only a few nights of "A little to the left, Ivar" and "What in Odin's name are you doing down there??" before he learns what can make her tremble and cry out his name. She pushes him, does not coddle his insecurities. She commands instead of coaxes and he is grateful to her. 

He had not known before that one could bring satisfaction with just their hands or their mouth. But now that he does, he can't get enough. He craves the taste of her on his tongue, the way she grips his hair and pulls when she is getting close. He could spend hours with his hands bruising her hips, slaking his ravenous hunger for her as she begs "More, Ivar, more more more!" He is a master musician of his instrument and he knows just how to play it, how to stroke and pluck until she makes the sweetest music, just for him. 

She discovers just how to make him sing, too. 

It surprises him, how she does it. They are together in his bed, lips moving together as she carefully strokes him with her hand. He is responding, groaning as he feels the tension start to build. But he has never gotten farther than this, even when it was just himself trying. So he braces himself for disappointment. But she will not have it. 

She bites down on his bottom lip hard, enough to make him cry out as she draws blood. She pulls away from him, eyes blazing as she takes one finger and swipes the ooze of sticky liquid from his lips. His excitement grows. She takes her blood-covered finger and draws a line right up the middle of her chest, between her breasts and right up her creamy, bruised neck. He groans, so close he can barely stand it. Then she looks right at him with a sultry smile, and sucks his blood of her finger with a pleased sigh.

His end is so intense he thinks he sees stars. 

She giggles as he lies there, panting and squirming as his pleasure runs its course. "Mmmm, so it is blood that does the trick," she leans forward to lick the remaining crimson stain from his bottom lip. "How very naughty of you, Ivar Ragnarsson."

He growls at her and spends the next hour showing her just how naughty he can be.

It's perfect and it's bliss and he should know that it cannot last. 

He begins to notice little things. How her brow creases in worry when she thinks he is not looking, her hands twisting in her lap. How she wakes sometimes in the night gasping, but when he asks she simply shakes her head and grips him tighter. How she shows up to his house wearing a new hair clip, or necklace, but when he asks about them she waves him off and simpley states "just a gift" before she removes it and pounces on him. 

He assumes they are from her father. Until he sees her one day in the market, talking to Sigurd.

His blood boils instantly. She has every right to talk to any of his brothers, but he cannot stand that she is. That one of them is standing so close to her, breathing the same air. He wants to crawl over there and show Sigurd whose woman he is talking to. That she is marked for him, claimed by him. But he cannot. So he stays out of sight and watches. 

Sigurd says something, and she laughs. He frowns. He does not like this. Sigurd then produces a pretty scarf from his pocket, holding it out to her. To his horror, she smiles at his brother and accepts the gift, holding it cradled to her chest like it is something precious, something to treasure. 

His heart sinks into his stomach. How could he have been so blind? How could he have believed her when she told him she wanted only him? Here he is, watching her accept a courting gift from another man. He is a stupid, simple fool. He is nothing more than an amusement, a distraction. She probably sneaks out after he is asleep to go to Sigurd. Her real desire. 

His heart is so heavy it feels made of lead. He turns away from the sight in front of him and crawls back to his house, trying desperately to keep himself together. 

He gets over the threshold, then he loses it. He screams in agony, and he does what he does best- destroy. He rages and rages and the house doesn't stand a chance. He breaks and he shatters and he finds after his eyes are wet with tears. Then comes the numbness. He sits and stares at the fire and his heart turns to stone. 

That is where she finds him.

She slips through the door just after twilight, as she usually does. But he does not greet her with his usual smile. He can hear her cheerful greeting die on her lips as she takes in his hunched form and the destroyed room.

"Ivar, what happened here?" She asks, rushing to him. "Are you alright? Did something-"

"Do not touch me," he spits, recoiling from the hand she had placed on his shoulder. 

"Ivar," the hurt and confusion in her voice tear at him, but he does not give in. "Ivar, what is going on?"

"You know perfectly well what is going on," he snarls, hands clenching into fists. "You lied to me. You come to my bed every night but it is a lie. And I am a crippled fool!"

He turns to look at her then, and he can see the realization of what he means dawning on her. 

"Oh Ivar," she says, and her eyes are horrified. "It was not as it seemed. I promise you-"

"Lies!" He roars, picking up the nearest object and throwing it at her. She moves out of the way just in time, the cup smashing into the wall behind her. "How can you tell me it is not as it seems? I saw you accept a gift from him! All those new trinkets and baubles you have, they are all from him! He is courting you! And you, you-" he chokes on the words, his rage constricting his throat. 

"Let me explain!" She cries, dodging another object as he throws it at her. "I thought I was protecting us, protecting you! It maybe was not the best course of action, but I could not think of anything else to do!"

"Courting Sigurd is protecting me? I do not need protection!" He howls, reaching for anything else to throw. But she is quicker, and she lunges at him, knocking him into the floor. 

"It seemed like the only way!" She shouts in his face as she lands on top of him. He snarls, quickly flipping her over and pinning her beneath him. He is momentarily surprised to see her eyes brimming with tears. 

"You told me you wanted me," his voice cracks with agony. "You climbed into my bed. You made me feels things for you I have never felt before!" His hands close around her throat. 

She does not give in, her eyes hard and blazing as tears begin to slide slowly down her face. 

"I have not lied to you," she says defiantly. "I want you and only you, Ivar. You will let me explain myself. Then, if you decide my answer is not worthy, you may choke the life out of me as you please."

She stares at him, face wet and bottom lip trembling, and he feels himself reluctantly relent. She will be the death of him. Forever his biggest weakness. 

"Speak," he commands. He does not let go of her throat.

She holds his gaze as she begins. "A few years ago, I was married. His name was Aric. While he was courting me, he was sweet, kind. He would take me out in his boat and make love to me under the stars. I loved him very much. When my father gave us his blessing, there was no happier woman on earth than me."

His insides twist with surprise and jealousy. But he simply grunts and lets her continue.

"When we got married, everything changed." Her eyes grow haunted, distant. "He showed his true nature after I was officially declared his. He liked to drink. He liked to use his fists. He especially liked to take me as I screamed for him to stop."

Her face twists painfully at the memories, and his heart roars in rage, a crack beginning in the stone he has thrown around it. He wants to kill this Aric, to rip him into a million tiny pieces. 

She swallows, and a few more tears leak from her eyes. "One night, he was particularly angry. I can't even remember why. All I remember is I did not do something like he wanted, and before I knew it, I was naked on the bed and he was taking his leather belt to my back."

Another crack in the stone. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the picture of her crying in pain as her back is mutilated by someone she had loved.

"I knew he would kill me that night," she continues. "I was not the girl then that I am now. I was quieter, weaker. But in that moment, something changed. I would not longer be the poor abused wife. With all I had in me, I grabbed the candlestick off of the table beside the bed, twisted around and hit him right in the face. He stumbled back, and it gave me my chance. I beat his head into the ground until he was no longer recognizable."

He cannot help but feel a surge of pride as he imagines her wielding her weapon, covered in blood as she beats her worthless husband into a pulp. But he is still angry with her. And she has not explained herself.

As if she can read his mind, she nods.  
"I'm getting there, Ivar. Gudrik found me, crying and covered in blood, Aric dead on the floor. He told everyone he had come across Aric beating me, and had jumped to my rescue. Father was beside himself. He swore next time he would pick the man himself, find someone better. I did not care. In my mind, I would never love again. And I did not look at another man for two years."

She looks at him then, grey eyes so full of tenderness that another crack splits right down the middle of his heart. "Then your father died, and we came to pay our respects. Father only brought me along because he wanted me to marry one of the sons of Ragnar. Who better for his daughter? I accepted his offer because I wanted to get out of our village, to see a bit of the world. I was tired of being looked at with pity everywhere I went."

"You father wishes you to marry Sigurd," he interrupts, voice bitter. "You came here to marry a son of Ragnar that your father would approve of. I know he will never approve of the cripple. Aren't you the dutiful daughter?"

She slaps him then, harder than she ever has. "I am not! I was going to be, had planned for a loveless marriage to a great man. If he didn't beat me, I would be happy. But then I saw you. And my heart became yours the moment you looked at me."

"You lie," he squeezes her throat, not daring to believe. "You are a filthy liar!" He spits in her face. 

She spits right back. "I swore after Aric I would never love again. You changed that for me, Ivar! You hold my heart in your hand and you cannot even see it! I pretend to let Sigurd woo me so my father will not find out about you. He will tear you from me if he does, I have dreamt it! Night after night he takes you from me, and I can do nothing!" She begins to cry in earnest, huge sobs the wrack her entire body. "I cannot lose you, not right when I have just found you! I did not know what to do, I just wanted to give us some more time!"

He looks at her, angry and weeping underneath him. His heart is torn. How could the gods send him this beautiful creature only to have her betray him? But he is only half the man his brother is, and perhaps she has come to realize this. The gods have always been cruel to him. How could this be any different? 

She sees the hesitation in his eyes. She reaches up and grabs the back of his neck with both hands, nails digging in deep. Her crying ceases, and her eyes burn with that wild look only she can have. 

"Believe me when I say this to you, Ivar Ragnarsson. You are the only man I want, now and forever. I want to stand by your side, call you husband and partner. I want to bear you as many sons and daughters as the gods will grant. I want to make love to you with the dusk and wake in your arms with the dawn. I want to wash your wounds from battle, drinking with you in victory and comforting you in defeat. I want to fight with you, make peace with you, live out all the trials and joys of this life with you."

She takes a deep, steadying breath, then says the words that rattle him straight to the core. 

"I love you, Ivar the Boneless. I am so completely, madly, utterly in love with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like cliffhangers and I cannot lie.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar chooses whether or not to believe Freja. 
> 
> TW: mild sexual content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! Another chapter just for you! A little resolution to that horrible cliffhanger haha. I apologize if the story is going too fast or too slow, pacing it has been a bit of a challenge. Hopefully my next update will be in a few days but I have a sick kid and a sick hubby so we will see.
> 
> Also, if you haven't watched Alex's mockumentary "Koldt pa toppen", DO IT. DO IT NOW. YOUTUBE THAT SHIT AND REMEMBER TO BREATHE.

She stares up at him, waiting.

His mouth hangs open, his eyes wide with shock as he looks down upon her. She can feel her heart practically beating out of her chest. There is nothing more she can say. She has laid everything bare in front of him, emptied herself completely out in hopes that he will understand exactly what he is to her. 

She meant every word. She is all consumingly in love with him. So much it hurts. Her idea to let her father think she is interested in Sigurd was not a good one, but she was so overwhelmed with the thought of being torn from Ivar she did the first thing that sprang into her mind. She should have told him. She has let him think many things that are not true and she hates herself for it. 

But now, all she can do is wait. 

"You love me," he finally says in a strangled whisper. 

"Yes," her voice rings clear and confident. "With everything I am."

"You would marry me," he continues, fingers flexing against her throat. "You would bind yourself to me for all eternity, despite my legs, despite your father, despite everything?"

She slowly releases one hand from his neck and places it cautiously on his cheek. "I am yours, Ivar. If you'll still have me."

He blinks, sucking in a sharp breath. 

One heartbeat. 

Two heartbeats. 

And then his mouth descends on hers in the hungriest, most desperate kiss they have ever shared. 

She responds immediately with a moan, letting his mouth plunder hers as she scrambles to pull his body closer. His hands leave her throat, one sliding up to cup her face while the other roams her upper body. She arches into his touch, the feel of his large warm hands on her making the desire in her blood rise to the surface. 

He tears his mouth away from hers, teeth scraping her skin as he sucks ruthlessly on her already love bitten skin. Her neck will look even worse but she does not care. Let him mark her, let him claim her. It feels too good to tell him to stop.

"Ivar," she whines breathlessly, reaching up to tug on his hair. A pleasured groan rips from his throat, and her whole body shudders under the sound.

"You are mine," he moans into her skin, tongue tracing a wet path down her neck to her collarbone. "You belong to me, not Sigurd. He cannot have you. I will not let him take you from me!"

Her heart sings in joy. She had been so terrified he would not listen to her, that he would push her away in his anger. She thanks the gods that her fears are laid to rest.

His tongue laves across the top of her breasts, along the neckline of her dress. "Wouldn't he like to know where you have been spending your nights. That his crippled brother has had you in his bed, that I have touched and tasted every inch of your body. He imagines he can make you tremble, how would he like to know that I already have?"

His voice is dark and full of lust, washing over her heated skin. She squirms in anticipation as he slides down her body, eyes boring into hers with a primal stare. 

"Your body is mine," he snarls, hands rucking up the bottom of her dress. "My instrument, to play as I please. My feast, to partake of as I please. And," he gives her a feral smile, "right now I'm hungry."

His head disappears under her dress she loses all coherent thought. There is nothing in this world but Ivar between her thighs and the dizzying rush building inside of her. He winds her up tighter and tighter until she finally snaps, tearing the rug underneath her hands as she sobs his name over and over and over. 

He crawls out from under her dress, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. She can only take gulps of air as he sits up in one mesmerizing motion. She leans up on her elbows, watching the muscles in his chest and arms flex as he removes his shirt. She cannot help but lick her lips in anticipation, eyes wandering down his stomach to the growing bulge in his pants. 

Ivar notices, and his eyes grow almost black with desire. "Your turn," he commands, laying back on the rug with his arms under his head. 

She smiles at him, deciding to play with him a bit. She does so enjoy seeing him get all riled up. She sits up slowly, crawling up until she can straddle his hips. She takes one sharp nail and runs it over the ridges of his abdomen, not deep enough to break skin but enough to make him hiss in pain. 

"Maybe I do not want to," she shrugs, leaning down to follow the red line her nail has made with her tongue. He makes a delicious choked groan. "You did throw things at my head, after all."

A hand wraps tightly around her hair, tugging hard. "Take my damn pants off, woman, or you will be sorry!"

She bites the skin just above where his pants rest. "You continue to boss me around like a slave, it is you who will be sorry."

He tugs on her hair harder. "Woman, I swear to Odin-"

But he doesn't get to finish, as she then deftly gets his pants down and sets to work. She does not need any blood this time, he is riled from their fight and more than ready for her. She has not used her mouth on him that many times yet, and she enjoys the way it makes him writhe and pant even more so then with her hands. Within minutes he is throwing his head back and groaning out her name. She sits back as he finishes shaking, licking the taste of him from her lips and grinning at him.

He throws one arm over his head and reaches out the other one to pull her down on top of him. She goes willingly, settling herself comfortably into his side. 

"You are an insufferable woman, mitt hjarta," he groans, moving her hand up to his head so she can run her fingers along his scalp. She just giggles, enjoying the silky feel of his hair slipping through her fingers. They lie in silence for a while, sated and content.

After a few minutes, he turns to look down at her, piercing eyes suddenly vulnerable. "You really love me?" He asks softly. 

She nuzzles his neck, smiling into his skin. "I do."

His shoulders begin to tremble, and to her surprise, his eyes begin to fill with tears. She realizes then with a pang that she is probably the only one besides his mother who has ever said that to him.

"Oh," she sighs. "My Ivar, my love, hush now..."

She positions them so she can curl around him, laying his head on her chest. She strokes his hair as he shakes silently, face hidden from her.

"I dreamt of you," he whispers, voice thick. "Every night you would come to me in my dreams. I used to think the gods were torturing me. How could such a beautiful creature be for me? But then you came here, real and wonderful and so much more than my dreams had ever shown me."

He takes a shuddering breath. "I was so....happy. Being with you is unlike anything I have ever felt before. I cannot describe it with words."

She hugs him closer, knowing this is the closet she will get to a confession of love. Ivar is not a romantic or poetic man. He will not spout flowery declarations. But what he says is enough, and her heart swells. 

"But then I saw you with him ," he continues. "I saw you smile at him and I-"

"I'm sorry," she interrupts, guilt squirming inside of her. "I should have told you, I should not have gone behind your back with my plan."

"No," he says harshly, squeezing her waist almost painfully, "you should not have. You will make me kill you yet, little hellcat."

She digs her nails into his scalp in retaliation. "Not if I kill you first."

He huffs. "Life with you certainly will not be dull."

She thrills at his words. "I must keep you coming back to my bed somehow."

He turns and nips the side of her breast through her dress. "I do not think you have to worry about that."

She laughs. "Good."

It is silent again for a moment, before he suddenly pulls himself from her embrace and sits up.

"What is it?" She asks, her body already mourning the loss of his warmth.

"I have just thought of something," he says, reaching for his discarded shirt and quickly throwing it on. She pouts as his chest disappears from view. 

"Can you not think of things with less clothes on?" She whines. He throws her a wicked smirk as he moves on to doing up his pants.

"Fix your dress," he orders. "We are going out."

"Out?" She sits up, frowning. "It is late. Can we not just go to bed and leave whatever it is till morning?" She reaches for his hands, pushing them away so she can undo the ties he has done up.

He slaps her hands, growling at her under his breath. "It cannot wait. Now, stop trying to undress me and we will go."

She sighs, rolling her eyes as she stands up and straightens her dress. "Will you at least tell me where we are going?"

He looks up at her, head cocked to the side. "Do you trust me?"

She snorts. "Not in the slightest."

He laughs then, a real laugh. She's never heard him truly laugh before, and she is taken aback by how wonderful it sounds. His whole face lights up, the angry creases fade and he looks positively angelic. Odin strike her down, he is the most beautiful man she has ever seen.

"You are a smart woman," he says with a grin. "Now come on, it will take us a little time to get there."

"Just tell me what we are doing, Ivar," she says irritably.

His grins gets wider.

"I think it is time we went to see Floki."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's too early to be awake, apologies if any sentences don't make sense. Love!!


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar takes Freja to see Floki. Things do not go as planned, and their chances of being together may be threatened now more than ever. 
> 
> TW: violence, abusive behaviour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my ass. I struggled a lot with it. I hope it passes inspection! Thanks a million once again for all the love and support! If I could hug you all I would!
> 
> Also FYI: I have made my return to Tumblr! You can find me at underthenorthstar :)

"You still have not told me why exactly we must visit this Floki at such a time of night," Freja's voice is somewhat sullen as they make their way towards the boatbuilder's house. "It is cold and I wish we were back in your bed. It is warm there. And we can be without our clothes."

He huffs, half annoyed and half amused. "If you would walk faster and stop complaining, we would be there already."

"I am walking just as fast as you are crawling, thank you," she sniffs, and he swears he hears her mutter "bastard" under her breath.

He cannot help grinning to himself in the dark. This is what he needs in his woman. Someone who does not bow down, is not afraid to challenge him. He likes to be in control, yes, but it does get tedious when everyone simply cowers to your will. His Freja pushes him, sinks her claws in deep and holds on until it bleeds. It irks him to no end, makes him want to put a knife in her gut, but he loves it.

Like he loves her. 

He cannot bring himself to say it. Years of being deprived of love makes the word stick in his mouth. To him, love always felt weak, childish. Something stupid young men and women say to each other but never really mean. The only person he knew had truly loved him was his mother. But it was a suffocating love, full of fear and worry. Mother kept him safe, but in turn that kept him from normality. He has spent his life feeling like an overly coddled child. She had meant well, but it had done him much more harm than good.

Freja makes him feel like a man. She does not treat him specially or differently. She does not lower her expectations. He is to be everything a man should be for his woman; strong, capable, able to protect and provide, able to please and satisfy. She sees his body as something to be desired, and she has no hesitation in showing it. She entwines her legs with his in the bed without even a second thought. She did not balk at his supposed impotence. She touches him every moment they are together and when she is gone his very bones ache for the loss of her next to him.

She loves him and wants him as husband. She wants to bear him children, to stand by his side for whatever amount of life the gods grant them. The world had clipped his wings and caged him; Freja has broken the lock and set him free.

"Ivar, how much further?"

He turns and scowls at the sulking woman beside him. "Do you ever stop complaining? You are not the one who has to drag yourself around like a snake in the dirt."

She reaches down and pulls his ear, like a mother scolding a child. "Do you ever stop being an irritable prick?"

He swats her hand away. "Watch your tongue, hellcat, or you may find yourself without one."

She just laughs. "You enjoy my tongue far too much for that."

He is about to retaliate when they come upon their destination. Floki is sitting outside his house stoking a large fire. Helga and her strange foreign child are nowhere to be seen. He assumes they are inside sleeping.

"Cannot sleep, old man?" He calls. Floki looks up, squinting against the darkness.

"Is that you, Ivar? What are you doing out here this time of the night?"

Ivar crawls into the light of the fire, waving his hand for Freja to follow. "I have a matter of great importance to speak to you about."

"And it could not wait until morning?" 

"That is what I told him," Freja mutters, and he throws her a dark look. 

"Who is this?" Floki turns to look at her. "Is this your Freja you have spoken to me about?"

He is pleased to note that she flushes a deep pink at being referred to as 'his'. "Yes," he replies, "this is my Freja. Freja, this is Floki the Boatbuilder. He has built boats for my father and my brother. He taught me everything I know about the gods."

"I am happy to meet you, Floki the Boatbuilder," she inclines her head politely. 

"As am I to meet you," Floki nods back. "You are a brave girl, getting yourself involved with this crippled bastard. Has he tried to kill you yet?"

"At least twice," Freja answers with a ghost of a smile. 

"And you are still standing," Floki hums thoughtfully, stoking the fire. "How interesting. The gods must favour you, Freja Vidarsdottir."

"Perhaps they do," she smiles wider, and Floki gives her a crooked smile in return.

"Enough talk," he interrupts them, impatient to get to business. "Floki, I am hear to ask you to do something for us."

"You need someone to do something for you?" Floki raises an eyebrow at him. "That is a first." 

"Quiet, old man," he snaps. "I need you to marry us. Tonight. Can you do it?"

"Marry you?" Floki says at the same time Freja shrieks "What?!"

"Yes, marry us," he quips, settling himself upon a stump beside the fire. "You are a man of the gods, they will recognize a marriage bond overseen by you. How quickly can you prepare?"

He ignores the incoherent sputtering coming from beside him. Floki looks at both of them intently. His keen eyes flit back and forth, reading between the lines. A shadow of something crosses his face, and he rises swiftly. "I will do this for you, Ivar. Meet me in the cedar grove in one hour."

He nods to the older man, who quickly slips into the darkness, muttering to himself. 

"Now your father will have no reason to take you from me," he turns to the woman still open mouthed in shock. "You will be my wife and belong to me. He cannot refute that."

She just stares at him. "What?" He scowls. "You said you wanted to be my wife. Now you will be."

"I did not mean this very night!" She finds her voice, and it is shrill. "You did not even ask me properly!"

He frowns, confused. "Why would I ask you? You already told me you wished to marry. So we are getting married. It is quite simple."

"Ivar," she shakes her head in frustration, "we cannot marry tonight. When my father finds out, he will kill you! And what am I to do when Sigurd asks for my hand? Tell him 'oh sorry, I have already married your brother is secret'?"

"I am not afraid of your father," he says, feeling his anger and confusion swell at her words. "What kind of wedding were you hoping for anyways? For your father to suddenly change his opinion of me and give us his blessing? For us to be surrounded by well-wishers celebrating? That does not get to happen. Not with me. Not with the cursed cripple." He spits on the ground in bitterness.

"Maybe my father can be reasoned with," she argues, tugging on the end of he braid in frustration. "He is not a bad man. If I just explain to him, perhaps he will-"

"Explain to him what? That you lied to him, led Sigurd on, sullied yourself with the lowest of Ragnar's sons? Oh, I am sure he will let us marry publicly once you tell him all that," his voice is biting. Why is she fighting this? She is the one who said she wishes to be his wife. Why is she pushing back now? It tears at his heart. Was he wrong to believe her declaration of love? 

"I have not 'sullied myself', do not speak about yourself as if you are some disease," she snaps, eyes glowing in the firelight as she moves to stand in front of him. "Leading Sigurd on was a plan to buy me more time to figure out how to tell my father about us. How to make him see that you are just as good a choice as any of your brothers!"

"We do not have time!" He snarls at her, reaching out and grabbing her arms to shake her roughly. "The army will leave for England soon! Does your father plan on letting you follow us? I would think not! And who knows when I will come back to Kattegat? This is our only option!"

"They will think you forced me," She struggles against his grip. "Father will think you have forced yourself upon me, gotten me with child! He will rip the flesh from your bones!"

He is so angry, so hurt that he is seeing spots. He shakes her so hard her head snaps back roughly, and she cries out.

"You cannot speak to me of wanting to be my wife then refuse to marry me! I will not allow it!"

"Let me go!" She cries, trying to claw at his face. "I will think of something, a way to convince Father!"

"No!" He roars, blood pounding in his ears. He grips her harder, a fog of rage surrounding his brain. How dare she refuse him tonight, after all she said to him earlier? He will marry her. She will belong to him. He will kill her father and her brother and then there will be no one to stand in their way. 

But he is so caught up in his rage he does not hear the shout and heavy footsteps rushing towards them. 

She is torn from his grasp, and he finds himself being pushed from his position roughly. He hits the ground with a hard thud, momentarily dazed.

When he regains himself, he looks up to see Gudrik sheltering a startled Freja under his arm, his eyes screaming murder.

"How dare you!" He shouts, face contorted in fury. "How dare you lay a hand upon my sister in such a manner!"

"Gudrik, I am fine!" Freja pushes him away from her. "It was a just misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding?" Gudrik fumes. "He was shaking you like a doll! He could have hurt you! I am glad that slave girl saw you head out this way with him, he could have killed you!"

He snarls in frustration as Freja gives an irritated huff. Margarethe. Of course.

"Leave us be," he sits up, hand going to the axe on his belt. He fixes Gudrik with his deadliest stare. "What we are doing is no business of yours."

"She is my sister, you animal!" Gudrik steps forward, hand going to his own weapon. "What are you threatening her with? Why have you dragged her all the way out here?"

"Stop talking about me as if I am not here," Freja stomps her foot angrily. "I am a grown woman, I can be where I want with whom I want!"

"You are my sister and- what in Odin's great name has happened to your neck?!"

Freja freezes, a hand going up to touch the bruises he has left on her. She does not have her scarf on. He feels a rush of primal male pride as the darkened skin is displayed in the firelight. His markings, his claim on her. But her brother's eyes go wide as he examines them, and his face twists in disgust.

"You will pay for this," Gudrik hisses, turning to face him and drawing his sword. "I will gut you from top to bottom! Have you forced yourself upon her? What else have you done to her?!"

He does not have time to respond before Freja is throwing herself between them. 

"No!" She cries, arms outstretched. "Please Gudrik, it is not as it seems. Let me explain! Hear me out!"

Her brother stops, sword clutched tightly in his hand. He himself has taken out his axe, and he curses his woman for fighting him. If she was less of a wild woman they could have already been wed and avoided this problem. Gudrik will tell her father and all will be lost. He will lose his little hellcat to his brother and the pain will leave scars on his heart so deep they will never heal. He closes his eyes at the agony of seeing her wed to Sigurd, of her going to his bed and growing round with his children. His woman, his Freja, so close yet just always out of reach.

He opens his eyes up again when he hears soft movement beside him. She has crouched down next to him, face imploring in the firelight. Her eyes speak volumes. Love, fear, uncertainty, apology. He looks at the outline of his hands on her bare arms, and he reaches up to trace a finger over the red marks. She catches his hand, entwining her fingers with his. He squeezes lightly, as much of an apology as he can give. She reaches up and strokes the side of his face in return, skin petal soft against his stubbled cheek. He hopes against hope it is not the last time he will feel her touch. 

Gudrik then makes an odd choking sound. They both turn to look at him. His mouth is half open in shock, his brows drawn together. He looks at their linked hands, and the realization of the truth dawn on his face. He lets out a large, exasperated sigh.

"Well, shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was actually originally going to make them get married this chapter, but alas, my muse said otherwise. Don't worry, fluffy/sexy times ahead!
> 
> Also, did Vikings say shit? If not, they do now.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freja and Gudrik have a talk. Ivar comes to Freja with an ultimatum.
> 
> TW: blood, very minor violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies!  
> Got this chapter done in what feels like record time for me. I hope you find it to your liking!  
> If you write Ivar fics, come find me on Tumblr. I'd love to read your work!

"Father is going to shit himself," Gudrik leans back in his chair, rolling his empty cup between his hands. "Trust our little Freja to take herself up with the one choice that is deemed unsuitable."

She scowls at her brother, taking a large gulp of ale out of her own cup. They are sitting outside their house, fire burning low in front of them. She wishes she knew where Ivar was. They had left him in the forest, as Gudrik wished to discuss everything alone back in Kattegat. She had only time to plant a swift kiss of apology on her lover's cheek before she was being swept away by an irate brother demanding an explanation. They have been talking for what feels like hours now.

"Why is he so unsuitable?" she responds. "He is a son of Ragnar. He is going to England as part of the Great Army. He has wealth and power. Is that not good enough for Father?"

"He is known to be cruel and petty," Gudrik sighs, pouring himself more ale. "He cannot walk, so I have no idea how he will fight in England. How can he protect you and your family? If he can even give you a family, there are rumours going around about that."

"People do not know of what they speak," she hisses, flushing bright red as Gudrik raises an eyebrow. "I mean, we haven't, not yet, but there are signs he-"

"If you get yourself with child, you know Father will kill him," her brother states matter of factly.

"Father will kill him no matter what," she sighs, slumping down in her seat. "How did I ever get myself into this mess? I swore after Aric I would never love again. But his very being calls to me, sings me a song I cannot bear to resist."

Gudrik studies her intently. "Do you truly want to be with him?"

She nods. "Very much."

He points to her neck. "Even if he is hurting you?"

She clutches the scarf she has now wrapped over her marked skin. She loves her bruises. They are not a product of rage or hate, they are a love poem. They tell a story of a man and a woman and the raging ocean of emotions that lie between them. Ivar uses her body to map their love, to carve his very heart into her skin so she can never forget. 

"He does not hurt me," she says quietly. "I know you compare him to Aric, but it is not the same. What Ivar does...I want him to do it. Aric simply took; with Ivar I give."

Gudrik's eyes narrow. "I saw him shake you."

She sighs. "He can be....difficult. But I am not afraid of him." She gives Gudrik a hard stare. "I am not the soft girl I once was. I have endured assault, I have endured torture. I have killed a man. I am stronger now than I ever was. I want to be with Ivar. Not just for now, but forever. I want to go with him to England and see him become the legend I know he will be. I want to convince you and Father that I can make my own choices, that just because I chose wrong once does not mean I am doing so again."

Gudrik simply looks at her, eyes thoughtful. 

"You love him." It's not a question, but a statement.

"Yes," she says. 

"And you believe he loves you."

"Yes."

Gudrik leans forward. "I saw you after you killed Aric. I know you are much stronger than Father gives you credit for. I am still wary of this situation, of him. But you are no longer a child. You are a woman grown, and a fierce one at that." He smiles slightly. "I do no wholly approve of this, nor will I vouch for you to Father just yet. But I will not expose you or stop you."

"Oh Gudrik!" She gasps excitedly. "Really?"

"If he harms one hair on your head, does something you do not want him to do, I will kill him," Gudrik warns. "You are still my baby sister, after all."

"Thank you!" She jumps up and hugs her brother tightly. "I will figure out how to tell Father. And Sigurd."

Gudrik laughs and pats her back. "I will admit, it has been good to see you so happy, litt systir."

"I am happy," she smiles, pulling out of the hug. "It is very late. I wish to find Ivar, but I am so tired I think I should wait till morning."

"Sleep well, Freja," Gudrik waves her off, and she scampers into the house.

Was it only mere hours earlier she had told Ivar she loved him, since they had touched each other in front of the fire? It feels like a whole lifetime ago. She frowns as she readies herself for bed, thinking of their fight in the forest. So like Ivar, to assume he knows what is best at all times. She hopes he will not do anything irrational, like attempt to murder Gudrik or her father in their sleep. She resolves to get up with the dawn and speak with him. There has to be a way they can convince her father. If Gudrik can be swayed, perhaps he can too.

She falls asleep and dreams of a life where they do not have to hide. 

When she wakes, it is way past dawn. The sun is high in the sky, the day already at least half gone. She blinks a few times before she is aware that she is not in the bed alone. She is enveloped in a cocoon of warmth, two strong arms wrapped around her and the soft rush of hot breath hitting the back of her neck. She panics for one tiny second before the scent of metal and leather and something uniquely him washes over her, and she relaxes with a sigh. His arms tighten around her and she shivers as his lips brush softly against the hollow behind her ear.

"You were talking in your sleep," Ivar murmurs into her skin, teeth scraping over the sensitive flesh. She shudders and pushes herself back against him. 

"What did I say?" She asks softly, closing her eyes as his tongue runs gently along the shell of her ear.

"Mmmm, mostly nothing I could understand, but I did hear you say 'Don't be stupid, Ivar,'" he takes her earlobe between his teeth and nips gently. 

She laughs breathlessly. "That does sound like something I would say."

He hums, and to her surprise, pulls away from her. She rolls over to face him. His eyes are tired, like he has not slept all night. But there is a faint echo of the smile she loves so much on his lips, and she leans forward to kiss it softly.

A pleased noise rumbles in his chest, and he pulls her against him tightly. The kiss is soft, gentle. A loving brush of lips, no desperate hunger, no lustful anger. It is not a kiss they usually share. She realizes this is his way of apologizing for last night. His actions speak instead of his words. She finds herself kissing him a little harder, accepting his way of saying he is sorry.

She releases his mouth as she feels him press something into her hand. She frowns, sitting up and looking down at what lies on her palm.

It's a necklace, a long leather cord with two pendants at the end. One is a precious stone, a brilliant blood red gem that gleams in the sunlight. The other is a piece of round metal, crude and clearly handmade. She looks at it closely and finds it is inscribed with two different runes. She does not know what they mean, but they are beautiful. She runs her fingers over them reverently.

"Did you make this?" She asks, knowing his extensive knowledge of runes. He sits up and clears his throat in an almost embarrassed manner, nodding.

"The ruby was my mother's. She gave it to me before I left for England with my father." He rubs the back of his neck, looking at his knees. "I crafted the rune pendant a few days ago. The one on the side you have up is Dagaz, for the dawn. It means clarity, hope, happiness and the balance point between opposites." A red flush creeps up his neck. "On the other side is Berkano, for the birch goddess, meaning love, liberation, fertility and desire. They are...appropriate runes for you."

Tears prick her eyes at his words. "Ivar..."

"I wanted to give you a proper courting present," he interrupts, clearly uncomfortable. "Sigurd gave you so many, and they do not even mean anything to you, so I wanted to give you something, something that will, that means..." he trails off, frustration evident on his face.

She reaches over and cups his jaw, making up look up at her. "Ivar, this is the most precious thing I have ever received. Thank you."

He leans into her touch, eyes wide and almost childlike. "You like it?"

Her heart hurts at the surprise in his voice. "I love it," she affirms, stroking his cheek once before taking the necklace and pulling it over her head. It settles nicely around her neck, pendants resting between her breasts. 

"There," she smiles. "How does it look?"

His stormy blue eyes grow dark. "It makes you look like you are mine. Properly."

She giggles, leaning forward until their foreheads touch. "Mmmm, but I am not all about doing things properly. I like the improper way better." She brushes her hand over the marks on her neck for emphasis.

He growls, pushing her down onto the furs as he climbs on top of her. "Vixen."

She lifts a brow. "There are a few fading ones on my chest and thighs. Perhaps you should get to work in restoring them?"

A guttural sound rips from his throat. "I will utterly devour you, my little hellcat. But first," he lowers his face to nip at her shoulder. "About what happened last night."

"Ivar-" she starts, but cuts off with a gasp when he bites down hard. 

"Shut up," he snarls into her skin. "I will talk and you will listen."

He bites harder, and she feels the skin break. He laps at the blood like an eager puppy being presented with a treat. The velvety burr of his tongue is soothing over the sting of the broken skin.

"You dishonoured me by refusing me last night. You made me look like a fool. I should crush your windpipe beneath my hands." As if to demonstrate, he reaches a hand up to wrap around her throat while he sinks his teeth just beneath her collarbone, moaning softly as he tastes more blood.

"Gudrik found me earlier. He said he would not stop us, but he will kill me if I hurt you," he chuckles darkly. "Does he know how much you enjoy it when I give you a little pain?"

She thrashes underneath him, skin tingling everywhere he sets his mouth. 

"I will give you another chance," he squeezes her throat slightly. "The Great Sacrifice to the gods for our journey is in three nights time. You have until then to convince your father. If you do not manage to, we will wed anyways. Or there will be consequences."

His mouth is now at the top of her breasts. His fingers clench harder on her neck, but she still manages to grab on to his hair and pull hard until he looks up at her. She shivers slightly at the sight of her blood smeared across his lips.

"You-you would not dare," she hisses, giving his hair a hard tug. His eyes roll back in pleasure. "You would not dare to challenge my family."

"Do not test me," he grins ferally at her, teeth stained red. "Three nights. I will see you at the cedar grove for our wedding, my betrothed."

He surges forward and captures her mouth in a hard kiss. She can taste her own blood on his tongue, and it only fuels her building want for him. 

But then he is pulling away, grinning wickedly as he slides off her and onto the floor. 

"Where are you going?" She asks dazedly through her haze of lust. "What happened to 'devouring' me?"

He just laughs as he starts to crawl towards the door. "Do you not know, mitt hjarta, that I spent a good deal of time among the Saxons? It is all the rage to wait until one's wedding night."

And with that, he throws her a saucy wink and slithers out the door. 

She sits in bed for a moment, nightgown rumpled and skin smeared with blood. 

That bloody bastard. That stupid, maddening, irresistible bastard.

She sighs, fingering the pendants resting on her chest. She is strong, but Ivar is the chink in her armour.

It's time to go find her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fluffy fluff because one needs some every once and a while. 
> 
> litt systir- little sister
> 
> Also Ivar x blood = otp for life (I totally headcanon blood helps him get ready, so to speak haha)


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar waits three days. The outcome of his ultimatum is revealed.
> 
> TW: blood, using knives on people, animal sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest chapter I've written in a while. Thank you all for reading and commenting, I hope you enjoy this one! Please be advised I tried my best to make things accurate but still unique to my characters. Please let me know what you think!

The next three days are the longest of his life.

He stays away from town. He cannot bear to see her. The temptation to go back on his promise to give her a few days time is too great. He is itching to tie her up, drag her out into the forest and have their wedding performed right this instant. He is not a patient man, especially when it comes to getting what is rightfully his. And she is his, completely.

So he spends his days riding his chariot through the forest, practicing his axe movements for battle and trying not to be anxious. There is a little niggling fear in the back of his mind that she will not show up at all. That she will heed her father and stay away from him. Of course, he would still find a way to force her to marry him, but the idea of her being forced is not as nice as her coming to him freely.

And then there is the fact of their wedding night.

They have touched each other many times, seen each other unclothed. He should not be nervous. But the idea of disappointing his Freja is overwhelmingly shameful. His first duty as husband is keeping his wife pleased. He knows she is satisfied by what they have done so far, but it is not enough. He wants all of her. He wants to feel what it is like to move together as one being, in a sacred dance as old as the world itself. He wants to take everything she has to give and wring every last drop of desire from her. He knows he will never be able to live with himself if he cannot do these things.

So he waits. And he frets.

Finally, it is time.

He arrives at the cedar grove just as the sun is beginning to cast long shadows through the trees. The Great Sacrifice will happen after dark, so the few hours between now and then are their window of opportunity. Floki is already there, sharpening his sacrificial knife. He looks up when he hears the chariot approaching.

"Well hello, Cripple," he grins crookedly. "Will we actually be having a wedding tonight? Or am I sharpening this knife for nothing?"

"Shut up, old man," he snaps, dismounting and dragging himself over to where there is a chair set up for him. He pulls himself up into it with a grunt. "She will be here."

"Do you think she has convinced her father?" Floki asks, finishing with his knife and setting it aside. "Or shall I expect to preside over your funeral next?"

He bristles, his nerves already on edge. "More likely you will be presiding over his."

"Such talk probably will not win over your new wife," Floki tuts teasingly. "You already have your hands full with her, I reckon. You do not need to add killing your father in law to that."

He is about to give a response when there is movement from the trees. He tenses, turning towards the sound with one hand on his axe.

"It is alright Ivar, it is just me."

Relief floods his body. It's her voice. She has come to him. His Freja; his bride.

She steps trough the trees, and he nearly swallows his tongue. She is utterly radiant, a divine being wrapped in a mortal body. She is wearing a delicate crimson dress, the colour bright against the paleness of her skin. Her hair has been wound in intricate braids twisted around her head, and on top she wears a crown of white flowers. Her eyes are dark with kohl and her lips are the colour of blood. He has never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.

She smiles tentatively at him, then sweeps her eyes over the grove. She frowns. 

"Where is the second chair?" She asks.

"Second chair?" Floki scratches his head. 

"Yes," she says. "If my husband-to-be must sit, then I will sit, too."

If he did not love her before, he does now.

"Very well," Floki nods, and disappears into the woods to go get one.

Once they are alone, he reaches out a hand, eyes roving hungrily over her. "Come here."

She flushes pink but steps towards him and takes his outstretched hand. He pulls her down onto his lap, chuckling as she gives a gasp of surprise. "You look good enough to eat, little hellcat," he murmurs, leaning in to press his face to her throat. 

She laughs, hands stroking his shoulders. "Thank you. I paid a slave girl an exorbitant amount of gold to help me and keep it quiet, so I am glad you like it."

He growls, skimming his nose up the column of her neck and across her jaw. "I look forward to ripping this dress off of you later."

She squeezes him roughly. "You will not do any such ripping. This is my favourite dress."

He nips at her ear in response. "We will see." The mood suddenly shifts to a more serious tone. "I am assuming your attempts to speak with your father went poorly, as we are still here planning to be secretly wed."

She sighs, a long and heavy exhale. "I tried. I tried to speak of us many times without actually giving anything away. But any time your name was mentioned, he would scoff and say things like 'I pity the girl who ends up wed to a cripple' or 'I would not give you to him for all the gold in England'. I could see easily enough after long he will never approve of this match." She strokes the side of his face gently. "You were right, Ivar. I was just hoping he would understand. That he would be able to see..." she trails off sadly.

He moves so he can look her squarely in the eyes. "I told you it was a foolish venture," he says sternly. "But it matters not. He will soon no longer hold any claim over you. There will be no tears here, so get a hold of yourself. I will not have a weeping bride."

She hisses at him, wiping at her wet eyes. "Do not order me around. I hope you know becoming my husband will not give you any more power over me."

He just grins. "We shall see."

Floki then returns with the chair, and Freja sits herself down opposite him.  
His hands suddenly feel clammy, and he rubs them nervously on his pants. 

He is getting married. It is something he never even dared to hope for. All his life he has felt like he has been the one on the outside, alive but never really living. He had abandoned all hopes of ever feeling normal. But he is about to be wed. He will have a wife that loves him and chose of her own free will to be with him. She is his north star, shining brightly across the inky sky of his life. Whenever he feels consumed by the black anger that constantly threatens to swallow him whole, he need only to hold her in his arms, and the blackness will recede. He could not ask the gods for more.

It will be much simpler than a normal wedding ceremony. They do not have the time for all the details, nor could they have all been arranged without arousing suspicion. But he is confident that what Floki will do will solidify their marriage in front of the gods.

"First, a sacrifice for the gods," Floki says, taking his knife and slitting the throat of the young goat he has brought. He catches the blood in a large bowl, then takes a bough of cedar tips tied together and dips them in. "May they bless your marriage and your hearth, may they give you many children. May your cup always be full and your bed always be warm."

He gestures for them to hold hands, which they do. He then flicks the blood over both their faces.

"Now Ivar, do you present your bride with a weapon, to honour your ancestors and pass down to your children?"

He has thought of this. There is nothing he has except the axe in his belt, but it was supposedly one Ragnar had used many years ago. He takes it out and presents it to Freja. She takes it with a soft smile, then presses a kiss to the metal before gently laying it down beside her.

"And you, Freja?"

She in turn pulls her knife out of her belt, the one she had held to his throat all those nights ago. It has been polished and shines brightly in the setting sun.

"This was my grandfather's," she says quietly. "He gave it to me when I was just a little girl. It belonged to his mother. She was a great shieldmadien."

He takes the knife from her and kisses it like she has done. Floki nods and continues on.

"Do you swear to the gods, Ivar Ragnarsson, that you want to marry this woman? That you will love her and protect her, give her sons and daughters, honour her as wife? Answer me now."

"I swear by all the gods," he says clearly, and he cannot help but smile as he does. Freja's answering smile is brilliant.

"And do you swear to the gods, Freja Vidarsdottir, that you want to marry this man? That you will love and submit to him, bear him sons and daughters, honour him as husband?Answer me now."

Freja's clear grey eyes shine with happiness. "I swear by all the gods," she proclaims. "Maybe not about the submitting part, however," she adds under her breath, so quiet only he can hear it. He should reprimand her for that, but his heart is so full he cannot do anything but grin like an idiot at her.

"Then shall we exchange the rings?" Floki asks. His eyes widen in horror. Rings. He had forgotten about rings!

Freja does not seemed distressed. She simply reaches into the folds of her dress and produces two white bandages. She then holds out her left hand to him. He just looks at her, confused.

"Rings can be lost, damaged or stolen," she says simply. "Scars can fade but they are never truly gone."

Oh, how he loves this wild woman.

He grins, and picks up the knife she has given him. He takes her hand in his, stroking his thumb over her ring finger gently. Then he takes the knife and begins to carve a circle around the base. 

Red blooms where the knife slices through skin. He is careful to cut deep enough that it will scar, but not too deep that there will be any damage. She does not wince or cry out. His hellcat sits perfectly still and silent as he writes her his wedding promise in blood.

When he is done, he brings her hand to his mouth and gently licks the red line he has made. He gives her now flushed face a wink and takes a bandage from her so he can wrap her hand. When he is done, he hands her the knife.

She takes it with determination, and he surrenders his left hand to her. The bite of the blade into his flesh is not unpleasant. He watches with rapt fascination as her own promise appears on his hand, so much more real and visceral than a simple metal ring. How perfect, to mark each other like this. To scar skin, as they have scarred each other's hearts. To see her carve up his very flesh, it is a sight that thrills the darkest part of him.

He is both pleased and slightly aroused when she licks his wound as he did hers. She wraps his hand tenderly, and they both turn to look at Floki. To his credit, the boatbuilder does not say anything about the strange 'ring' exchange he has just witnessed.

"Well then," he says, laying a hand on each other their shoulders. "Join hands, you two."

He clasps her small hands in his, heart hammering in anticipation.

"In the witness of the gods, in the presence of Odin our All-Father, I, Floki the Boatbuilder, do so declare that you are now man and wife. Kiss your bride, you crippled basatrd!"

He reaches for her, eager and ecstatic, but she is quicker. She practically jumps out of her chair and onto his lap, fusing their mouths together in a triumphant kiss. He grips her waist, clutching her as close as he can get her. She is truly, completely his now. If he was a weaker man he may have whooped for joy. 

"I love you," she murmurs against his mouth. "I love you, Ivar Ragnarsson, my husband."

"Mitt hjarta," he whispers back, emotions roiling inside of him. "My Freja, my wife."

She gives a happy little noise, and he can feel a tear from her eye splash down on his cheek. He pulls back and wipes it away with his thumb.

"What did I say about crying?" He scolds gently. She just laughs and slaps his shoulder.

"Well I hate to interrupt this touching scene," Floki interjects, "but it is getting late and you must get back to town before either of you are missed."

"Of course," he says, ushering Freja off his lap. "Come on, little hellcat, I will carry you back to town."

She frowns. "Carry me?"

He points over his shoulder to his chariot, smirking. "With my legs."

Her eyes go wide as she notices the huge contraption for the first time. A smile breaks across her face. "Oh Ivar! Is this what you will use in battle?"

"It is," he nods, sliding himself off the chair and starting to crawl towards it. "Do you like it?"

"I love it," she breathes, following him. "It's beautiful! You will be a sight to behold upon it. The Saxons will shit themselves in fright!"

He cannot help but laugh, pleased with her reaction to his now second most prized possession. He pulls himself up onto the seat, and she climbs to stand behind him. 

"Hold on to me tight, wife," he orders, enjoying the way the word feels on his tongue. "If you fall off and split your skull I will not feel sorry for you."

She pinches his side. "Just shut your mouth and drive, husband, or it will be you with a split skull."

He growls, but flicks the reins. They begin to move, and he feels her arms close around him tightly. Floki nods to them as they move forward. 

"May the gods watch over you," he calls. "And may your wedding night be fruitful! Hee hee!" He waves them onward, laughing to himself.

"Thank you Floki!" Freja waves back. "You'll be the first to know if it is!"

They leave the grove, the older man's laughter ringing behind them.

"Just a few more hours," he can feel her lay her head on his shoulder as she speaks. "A few more hours, and we will truly become husband and wife."

His gut clenches in anticipation. He takes one hand off the reins to reach back and close it around her thigh. 

"Just a few more hours," he echoes.

Odin help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if your teeth rotted out after that. Mine sure did writing it.


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freja and Ivar return to town to witness the Great Sacrifice, and to spend their first night together as husband and wife.
> 
> TW: Human sacrifice, death, blood, knifeplay, some sexual content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you, this is the first time I have written anything like this really. So please bear with me! I hope you guys enjoy it, I send it out to all the soldiers on Tumblr in Ivar's heathen army. Thank you for your continued support!!!

There is something different in the air tonight.

She can feel it in her very bones. The atmosphere is thick, like a heavy cloud of something otherworldly has settled over Kattegat. The anticipation of what is about to occur is building amongst the town's residents. They all gather in the darkness around the altar, like carrion birds surrounding a carcass. They are the predators, and they wait eagerly for their prey.

She stands to one side with her father and brother. She has taken her flower crown off but did not have time to change her dress. Ivar had gotten them back to town with just moments to spare. Luckily, everyone else has dressed up for the occasion, so she does not look out of place. She fidgets with the bandage around her hand, unable to keep still with the excitement and anticipation building within her. Not only for the sacrifice, but for what she knows will come after. 

Her wedding night. Her first time to truly be with Ivar, to solidify the promise they have just made to each other under the cedar trees. To be in his bed as his wife, to love him as he deserves to be loved. She can feel her skin prickle at just the thought, and she finds herself wishing the Queen would just hurry up and get things done already.

Finally, a hush settles over the crowd. Lagertha ascends the altar, and the sacrifice is brought out. It is a young, handsome man, and she feels the pride rolling off of him as he makes his way past her towards the Queen. She imagines herself up there, ready and willing to surrender to the release of death. What an honor, to be chosen to be such a gift to the gods.

She watches in fascination as the ceremony begins. The sword Lagertha is holding is beautiful, sharp and shining in the firelight. It will slice flesh and sinew with ease. The priest blesses the young man, and he takes his place between the pillars. She finds herself leaning forward, not wanting to miss a single second of what is happening.

The Queen raises the blade and places it against the man's chest. There is a moment of complete stillness, and then she begins to sink the blade into his flesh.

Silver becomes red, and the blood pours out, thick and crimson and beautiful. The man takes his hands and places them on Lagertha's shoulders, and then slowly pushes himself further onto the blade. It is mesmerizing, almost sensual even. The slow slide of metal, the soft gush of blood, the light slowly fading from the man's eyes. She feels a rush of adrenaline course through her, and she has too look away momentarily before it becomes to much.

She turns her face, and that is when she sees him.

He's watching the proceedings with an almost hungry look on his face, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. His large hands are clutched into tight fists against his thighs, knuckles bone white. He's leaning forward as if desperate to get as close as he can, to drink in every moment as if it is the most heady ale. As if he can feel his eyes on her, he suddenly turns and she can't help but gasp.

His eye are dark, pupils almost completely swallowing his blue irises. His gaze sweeps over her like a wildfire, burning and unquenchable. She is trapped, drowning in the pure, open desire that is written across his face. One hand twitches as if he wants to reach for her, and she has to restrain herself from rushing to him. She should have known how something like this would affect him. That the sight of blood and death would stir the slow simmer of want and need that has been leeching into them since they were declared husband and wife. She briefly wonders if given the chance, he would take her right there amongst the crimson river flowing from the altar. 

Her thoughts are broken by the sound of the drums signalling the young man has breathed his last, and it is time to celebrate. She exchanges a few short words with her family, and then she is gone, making her way up the path to Ivar's bed. Everyone in the town will soon be drunk on ale, and two young people will not be missed. She hurried along until she reaches her destination, quickly slipping inside before anyone can notice.

She does not know how long she has to wait for Ivar. She takes off her dress and folds it neatly by the fire. She does not doubt Ivar will indeed rip it, and it really is her favourite dress. He will be angry she has started without him, but she will face that anger. She paces in front of the fire in her underdress, clutching her hands nervously and trying to keep her heart from beating straight out of her chest.

It is not long before the door opens. 

She freezes mid stride, skin tingling as she feels his gaze upon her. She is facing the fire, her back to the door. She hears the thump of him removing his boots. She wants to turn around but she cannot move. 

"You started without me." His tone is level, but she can detect the irritation in it. "I did not say you could do that."

She clenches her fists. "I did not want you ripping my dress, I told you that."

"Do not take that tone with me, woman," he says commandingly. She hears him crawl past her towards the bed. She continues to look into the fire as she hears the rustle of clothes and the groaning of the mattress as he pulls himself onto the furs. 

"I am over here, little wife. Stop staring at the fire and come join me."

As if by magic, she is suddenly able to move. She turns around and raises her eyes to look at him. He is sitting shirtless in the bed, propped up against the headboard. She sweeps her gaze over the broad expanse of his chest, the corded muscles of his arms and shoulders. The desire to be close to him rushes over her, and she hurries to climb up beside him.

She is barely on the bed before he is swinging himself on top of her, lips claiming hers as he pushes her into the mattress. She yields to his forceful kiss with a whimper, hands roaming over every inch of exposed skin she can reach. He groans as she drags her nails across his shoulders and down his back. His hips push into hers and she lets out a soft gasp against his mouth.

"I could not stop thinking, as they were offering that man, about how you would look as the Great Sacrifice," he is licking and biting his way down her jaw now, voice heavy with lust. "All stretched out on the altar, your delicious blood spilling forth like a crimson fountain. You would be the most divine offering. The gods would weep for joy to receive such beauty."

She cries out as he sinks his teeth into her neck. "You have such milky white flesh, I cannot help but want to make it bloom with red. I want-I want to-" he shudders, pressing himself into her harder.

She leans forward and bites his shoulder, making him hiss in pleasure. "My body is yours to use, husband of mine. I give it to you freely."

He pulls back slightly, eyes scanning her face for any signs of hesitation. He must see none, for he grins wickedly and removes his wedding knife from his belt. He slowly drags it up the length of her underdress, splitting the fabric in two and exposing her body to his gaze. She shivers as he runs a hand down the length of her chest, eyes hungry and wanting.

"My pretty little wife," he purrs, taking the knife and setting it against her right breast. She takes a sharp breath in as he slowly drags the blade across her skin, a thin red line appearing. "How willing you are to surrender yourself to me. As I have told you before, I will carve myself upon every inch of you, so when you look at your body, you will no longer see yourself. You will only see that you belong to me, that you are my wife. That I own every single inch of your flesh, that there will be no other man to ever set eyes upon what is for mine alone." He lowers his head and licks at the cut he has just made. She can only whimper in response, heat in her belly flaring. 

He sets to work, his silver blade flashing in the firelight as he claims her as only he can. Her breasts, her arms, her belly, her thighs. He cuts with steel and soothes with his tongue. Once, this would have scared her, made her think of dark things in her past. But not now. Now, she wants to give him this, wants to have him etched into her for all eternity. Every bite into her skin makes her burn with desire for him.

"Turn over," he orders her once he deems himself finished with her front. She rears up, catching his mouth in a hot sloppy kiss, unable to help herself. He returns the kiss for a moment before forcefully pushing her away and turning her over onto her stomach. He runs a hand down her back, fingers tracing over her scars. She waits for the feel of cool metal against her skin, but it does not come. Instead, she feels him press his lips to the middle scar, warm and gentle. 

"Mitt hjarta," he whispers against her skin, his lustful dominance quickly replaced with a soft reverence. "My little hellcat, know this: I will never hurt you in this way. I will never do what he has done. You have my word."

She blinks back a tear as he presses warm kisses to each and every scar lashed across her back. Her Ivar may sometimes be cold and ruthless, but she knows he appears that way to guard a secretly softer heart. A heart capable of a love as big as the sea, as loyal as a soldier, as strong as the roots of the mighty oak. And she is the blessed recipient of that love. She can never thank the gods enough. She would go through every dark day, every tear shed all over agin if it meant she could be with him.

Feeling overwhelmed with love and need, she turns herself over and looks up at him. He is staring down at her, emotion after emotion flitting across his handsome face. She sees love for her, lust for her body, anxiety for his performance, fear he will not be enough. His cocky veneer has faded, replaced with his own insecurities. She reaches up and places a hand on his face.

"Ivar," she says softly, stroking his cheek with her thumb, "it will be alright."

He leans into her touch, eyes closing as he swallows hard. "Freja..."

"Shhh," she hushes him, reaching down and unbuckling his belt. "Do not speak. Just love me, husband. Now is the time. I am ready."

Her confident words seem to spur something in him. His eyes open, and they are full of determination. He growls at her, low and deep, and together they shed the rest of his clothes. She barely has time to glance southwards before he is forcing her chin up.

"Look at me," he demands, and she stares into the abyss of blue as he joins them together in one motion. 

It's clumsy at first, as they try to learn each other and the way they should move. He is inexperienced, she is out of practice. But is not unpleasant. She enjoys the feeling of her husband so close, of the way his hips move against hers. Their activities with the knife, coupled with his earlier bloodlust have made him decently ready. She can feel every movement, stoking the low heat settled deep in her gut. He settles his forehead against hers, hot breath fanning across her face. His hand bruise her hips, hers wrap around him to clutch at his back. She digs her nails in deep, and a guttural groan spills out of his throat. She does it a second time, desperate to hear the delicious sound again, and his hips pick up speed. She does it again and again and again, until she is sure there are little rivers of blood running down his back. Each time he groans louder, each time his hips move faster.

She knows she will not find her end this first time, but she does not care. There is a sharp current of pleasure running under her skin, and it is enough. Just to watch him, to feel him like this, is enough. She decides that she will never get her fill of him, of them together. 

He moves to claim her lips harshly, hips now moving at a bruising pace. His hands tighten almost painfully on her; he is very close. 

"Freja," he mutters against her mouth, "Freja, my Freja, my wife, I can't, I can't..."

"It's okay, love," she coos, "it's okay. You can let go. Let go, Ivar."

She digs her nails in hard at the same time she bites his bottom lip, and his hips stutter, his body going rigid as he lets out a cry like a wounded animal. She hold him tight to her chest as he shakes, pressing kisses to the crown of his head. 

He buries his face in the crook of her neck when he finally relaxes, and if she feels a little wetness on her skin, she does not say anything. She simply hugs him closer, heart happy and a pleasant ache between her thighs. He lets her embrace him for a moment, before he moves to lie on his back, bringing her to press against his side. She examines the cuts on her body briefly. They are no longer bleeding, so she determines washing them can wait until morning. She is too comfortable to move right now.

"See, I told you it would be alright," she teases gently, stroking her hand across his chest. 

"Mmmmm, you think you know everything," he murmurs, voice already tinged with sleep. His hand catches hers and laces their fingers together. "That was the most incredible feeling, being with you like that. But," he sighs quietly, "you did not find your pleasure."

She nestles in closer, enjoying the warmth radiating from his naked body. "Do not worry about that. Not tonight. What happened felt very good to me. It takes a lot of practice for a man to be able to finish a woman that way. We will work on it."

She half expects him to be upset, to demand they work on it right now, but he just lets out a huge yawn. 

"I will be hungry in a bit, I am sure," he says sleepily. "You can be my breakfast, little wife."

She presses a kiss to his neck, clenching her thighs together in anticipation. "Gladly. Sleep now, husband of mine. I love you."

She is not sure, but as she closes her eyes, she swears she hears him mumble "I love you too," into her hair. She smiles, thinking there could not be happier woman in the world than her.

When she is woken a few hours later by her husband planting kisses down the length of her, mumbling to himself about it being "time for breakfast", she is absolutely sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to give the lovebirds one more drama free chapter. Make no mistake though, a shitstorm is coming.


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, Ivar and Freja begin to face the consequences of their actions.
> 
> TW: violence, derogatory language, blood, mild sexual content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got hit with such bad writer's block last week. It was so frustrating! But I managed to push through and got this chapter done! Hope you all enjoy it, my little fluffy marshmallows! Let me know what you think.

Morning comes far too quickly. 

He does not want to get out of bed, does not want to let go of the beautiful creature sleeping soundly in his arms. The night seems like something from a dream. He had done it. He had given her everything he thought he could not give, had taken something he had assumed he would never have. And it had been incredible. 

He has never felt anything like it, being with her like that. He has heard his brothers talk about it, but what they described does not do it justice. They speak of physical pleasure, of carnal desire, but it is so much more than that. It is all his walls crumbling to dust at her feet, it is tying an unbreakable knot in the cord that tethers his heart to hers. It is finally, finally feeling like he is enough. And it is a chance to build a lasting future. 

He moves the arm that is slung over her waist to place his palm upon her belly. He imagines it growing swollen and round, imagines feeling the kick of life beneath his spread fingers. It is terrifying and wonderful at the same time. Perhaps his seed has even already taken root. He vows that if it has, he will protect her and their child until his last breath is ripped from his lungs. 

She shifts just then, and the furs fall off her shoulder to reveal two thin red diagonal lines, courtesy of his actions with her knife. He smiles to himself, leaning forward to press his lips to them. She sighs in her sleep, a contented sound, and he smiles wider. How lucky is he, to have found someone who understands, who does not turn and run in fear at his desires. She invites them, accepts them, even finds excitement in them. It makes him eager to see what other pretty work he can do to his living canvas. 

He is half considering retrieving the knife off the floor and waking her up with a cool metal kiss to her exposed shoulders when he hears loud shouting coming from down the path. It is getting closer to the house, one voice loud and angry, one desperate and pleading. He frowns, worry coursing through him. He is about to get up and go to investigate when the door to the cabin bursts open with a crash.

He barely has time to sit up before Sigurd and Gudrik come barreling into the room. Beside him, Freja wakes with a start, rubbing her eyes hastily as she struggles into a sitting position as well. 

Sigurd's gaze rakes over them, taking in their state of undress. His eyes narrow, his face flushing in anger. 

"So it is true," he seethes, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I did not believe Gudrik at first, but my eyes do not deceive me."

"What is true, brother?" He asks, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice. 

Sigurd snorts, waving a hand towards the two of them. "This, you stupid bastard! That you have somehow coerced the woman I am courting into your bed! Did you threaten to strangle her, or drown her in the bay?"

His hackles raise at the accusation. "Coerce? Why do you automatically assume I have forced her to do anything?"

"Of course you have!" Sigurd snaps. "Why else would she be here with you? In bed with a cripple? What have you threatened to do to her?"

"He has not threatened anything," Freja interjects, her voice calm but her eyes stormy. "I am here completely of my own free will." She turns to her brother. "Gudrik, you swore you would not say anything!"

"I'm sorry, Freja," Gudrik looks miserable, "we were drinking last night and he was telling me about asking Father for your hand and I....well, I just blurted it out."

"How wonderful," he says sarcastically, the calm and peace in his heart giving way to the familiar black anger and rage. "Well, woman, since we are in this mess thanks to you, you might as well tell my arsehole brother why you cannot accept his offer of marriage."

Sigurd's nostrils flare, his gaze hostile. "And why can't she?" He turns to Freja. "Do not tell me that you actually care about this spoiled brat," he says bitingly, "because he is not capable of caring for you. He cares for no one but himself. I am not even sure he has a heart inside that hollow cavity he calls his chest."

He should be used to Sigurd's insults by now, they have been his whole life, but it still stings a little bit. He snarls at his brother and makes to get out of the bed, but his little wife stops him with a firm hand on his arm.

"I can assure you," she says slowly, clearly trying to keep some sort of calm to the rising tension, "that Ivar is more than capable of basic human emotions. He is not a monster." Her face grows sympathetic. "I am sorry, Sigurd. You should not have found out this way. I am sorry I have been leading you on. It seemed like the only way to keep my father from finding out about Ivar and I. It was very unworthy of me and I do regret it." 

Sigurd takes a deep breath, and the tiniest hint of pain flashes across his face. It is quickly replaced with a cold indifference. "You will leave his bed immediately," He orders, "You will come with me and we will go to your father and we will be married. You will forget about my useless brother. He will only hurt you. Just look what he has done to you already!" He points to the thin red lines visible on her upper chest and shoulders. "Only a deranged madman would do that to a woman in bed! Or are you so crazy that you actually want that?"

Freja reels back as if slapped, and she hastily pulls the furs up to hide his handiwork. "He does not hurt me," she says quietly, eyes suddenly vulnerable. "Do not speak of this as if it is something to be reviled. You do not understand." Her body trembles beside him, and he feels his own shake in rage. His brother knows nothing of their love, of the way they express themselves. He does not know every red line is like a kiss, every dark bruise like poetry.

"How dare you," he thunders, jumping to her defence. "How dare you order her around like that! How dare you make such accusations! You do not know her, you do not know anything!"

"I know that you are a spiteful little brat," Sigurd spits, taking a step towards the bed. "You always have to have what is meant for others. You can never be content. Why can you not just accept that fact that you will never be like the rest of us?"

Another small sting, but he ignores it resolutely. "She is not meant for you," he growls, desperately wishing he had pants on so he could leave this bed and beat his brother senseless. "If she was, then why has she married me?"

The room falls silent. Both Sigurd and Gudrik blink, as if not quite understanding what he has just said. 

"Married?" Gudrik is the first to find his voice. "You married him, Freja? When?"

At the question, she seems to come out of whatever spell Sigurd's words had placed her in. "I did," she says, chin held high. "Last night, before the Great Sacrifice. I told you, brother, that Ivar and I are in love. Father would never agree to a marriage between us, so I took my life and future into my own hands. Where it should be."

"You married my crippled brother," Sigurd's voice is disbelieving. "Without being forced?"

"Father will kill him," Gudrik shakes his head, "he will kill him and send you back home. You should not have done this, litt systir."

"It is my life and I will do as I wish," she states with passion. "I want to be with Ivar, so I will be with Ivar! I can make my own choices, follow my own heart. Everyone else be damned!"

He feels a rush of affection at her defiant words. His little hellcat blazes with fury, claws outstretched, and it never will cease to amaze him. 

Sigurd looks at her with disgust. "You court one man and then marry another. A man who cannot even give you a proper life, a proper family! I cannot believe you. What sort of woman are you, other than a filthy liar and a deceiving whore?!"

The words are barely out of Sigurd's mouth before he is out of the bed and pouncing. He no longer cares that he is naked, that his twisted legs are exposed. He only feels pure, blinding rage. It lights like a spark into his core and quickly turns into a burning wildfire, all consuming and deadly. 

He grabs Sigurd's legs and pulls him to the floor. His brother lands with a pained shout, and then he is on top of him. He throws a fist against Sigurd's cheek, revelling in the satisfying sound of bone connecting with bone. His brother retaliates with a blow to the jaw; the blunt pain only fuels his fire. The trade blow after blow on the floor, flesh bruising and tearing beneath hard, angry fists. 

He is vaguely aware of Gudrik's attempts to wrestle him off of Sigurd; of Freja's frantic screams of "Stop! Stop!" But he ignores them. There is only him and his brother's blood on his knuckles and the way his hands are currently closing around Sigurd's throat. He will pay for the slander he has spoken about Freja, for thinking he is entitled to her just because he can walk upright on two legs. 

There's a harsh tug on his left elbow; he throws it off sharply and hears a cry of pain as it connects with something hard. Sigurd is struggling underneath him, fingers gripping his own as he tries to pry them off his throat. Gudrik grabs his hands as well, but he quickly leans down and bites one, hard. The warrior reels back with a shout. He snarls in savage victory, he will choke the life out of his brother then put a knife in hers.

But he is cut short by a sudden sharp blow to the back of his skull, and he lets go of Sigurd as he yells in pain and alarm. Gudrik takes advantage of his surprise and pushes him to the ground. 

"I said STOP," Freda's voice is shaky and slightly muddled. He pulls himself up to look at her. She's kneeling by the foot of the bed, completely naked with her nose dripping blood. Her hands clutch a large ale tankard. He realizes with both anger and horror that it was her who hit him, but it was her nose that his elbow had connected with.

"That is enough," she commands, voice steadying and grey eyes blazing. "I am not a piece of meat for two dogs to fight over! Sigurd, I will speak to my father, tell him the truth and that I cannot accept your hand. I can only tell you how sorry I am it has all happened this way. Gudrik, do not say one word of this to Father, or I will cut off your balls and feed them to the pigs. And you," she turns her gaze upon him, "you need to learn to control your temper!"

Fury blooms white hot inside him at her scolding. How dare she! He is not some wayward child to be reprimanded, he is her husband and he will have her respect. Did he not spring to her defence? Is not this whole mess her very own fault? He growls at her warningly, but she simply turns away to look at his brother still on the ground. 

"Get out," she says simply, "both of you." 

Gudrik hauls Sigurd to his feet. They both stare at them, one apologetic, one with anger and disgust. Sigurd takes a step forward and spits on the floor.

"May the gods deny you Valhalla," he curses, before turning on his heel and stomping out the door. Gudrik gives his sister a long, searching look, eyes lingering on the marks scored across her pale flesh. 

"I hope you have made the right choice, litt systir," he says quietly before backing out and shutting the door behind him. 

As soon as they are gone, he rounds on her. 

"You dare to scold me?" He seethes. "You dare to hit me, when I am fighting because you were being slandered? When this whole mess with Sigurd is your fault! I will not have it, woman! I will not-"

Her hand cracks across his face so hard his whole head moves. Before he can think she is pushing him down onto his back and climbing on top of him.

"I dare to do many things," she hisses, "and you will learn to accept that. If I wish to scold you, I will scold you! You are wild and reckless and have no sense of rational thought. You act before you think. You did not need to attack Sigurd!"

He snarls and digs his hands into her hips. "He called you filthy words. He dared to think he is better for you than me!"

"We are exposed now!" she yells at him, blood from her nose dropping down onto his chest. "We need to handle this calmly and rationally. I will not have you get yourself killed because you cannot control your temper!"

She leans down and captures his lips in a bruising kiss. He groans into her mouth, the sweet taste of her tongue mixing with the metallic tang of her blood. He can feel himself getting ready, their fight coupled with her pale skin stained with red sending all the blood in his body rushing south. She notices, biting his lip as she reaches down for him.

It's hard and fast and angry, so unlike their time the night before. They grip and claw, bite and bruise. The blood from her nose smears all over their faces, sticky and hot. He licks it off hers as she rocks above him, savouring the whimpering mewls that spill from her swollen lips. 

He can feel the tension building within him. She looks like the goddess Freya incarnate; love and beauty, war and death. Smeared with her own blood, littered with scars of his making, sighing and whimpering his name and no one else's. 

His little wife is quick; in a short time he is howling his release into her sweat-soaked neck. She gives him no time to recover before she is climbing off of him and pulling his hand towards her. He is still numb with pleasure, but he manages to have her sobbing and shaking with a few precise movements. They collapse together on the floor, a messy pile of sweat and blood and in Freja's case, tears.

He cradles her against him as she cries, washing his skin with her salty tears. He says nothing, for there is nothing to say. He knows she is afraid of what is to come. If he reaches deep down, he knows he is, too. But they must face it, if they want to be together. He is no coward. He will not run when he can fight. And the gods know, he will fight for her. 

Eventually her crying ceases, and she pulls away from him to wipe her face. 

"I should go talk to Father," is all she says, her grey eyes dull and lifeless. He frowns, reaching to gently cup her face in one hand. He does not like to see her normally vibrant spirit so resigned. 

An idea comes to him. He leans in and presses soft kisses over her forehead, down the bridge of her nose and finally her lips. 

"We will go talk to your father in a bit," he says against her mouth, ignoring her small noise of surprise at his words. "But first, little wife, we need a bath. I will meet you at the pool. Then, we will face what needs to be faced, together."

Her hands clutch his face, her nose presses against his. She takes a long deep breath, and he can feel the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Alright," she whispers, lips brushing against his own, "alright. Together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeeeee more blood. I can't get off the Ivar x blood train, sorry. Next chapter there will be less I promise haha.
> 
> I know Sigurd seems like a bit of a jerk in this chapter, but I feel his reaction is appropriate. He has been lied to and manipulated, plus him and Ivar already have this lasting tension between them. He's just so shocked someone would willingly pick his brother over him, since all they have experienced from each other is insults and anger.


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Freja spend one last moment of calm together before they face the storm. 
> 
> TW: mentions of blood, mentions of scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have gotten myself a beta now, the lovely pagan-raider on Tumblr! I'm very excited to have her ideas and opinions. Please enjoy this chapter, I couldn't help but indulge in a little more sugary sweetness!

Her steps are slow and weighty. 

She feels numb, like the joy has been taken out of her and replaced with an empty sort of dread. Her heart sits heavy inside her chest. Her wedding morning is supposed to be a glorious one. She should be waking comfortably cradled in her husband's arms. There should be lazy kisses and gentle strokes of hands. There should be peace and contentment and love.

But she should have known her happiness could not last. 

She knows that eventually she would have had to confront Sigurd. But the way it happened was not what she had wanted. She did not want the fighting and the blood. She wanted to tell Sigurd exactly how bad she feels, how there will be someone better out there for him. Instead, she had to hit her husband over the head to stop him from killing his brother. She had been called names, had been told she was crazy for letting her love express himself with her body.

And that was just a taste of what is to come.

She does not want to see her father. She wants to take Ivar and run far away, to a place where they can love freely and be together without worry. She is terrified the gods will take her husband away from her. She is well aware of how fearsome her father's wrath can be, and she does not know if they can withstand the storm. 

She finally reaches the pool. Ivar is already there, having gone ahead of her to avoid suspicion. Though, she thinks to herself, that does not really matter much now. Soon all of Kattegat will know of their union. She shudders to think about what the rest of his family will say when they find out. If it is anything like Sigurd, there will be more blood to come.

The sight of her husband lounging in the hot water lifts her spirits. He leans causally back against the rocks, upper body exposed to the cool morning air. He has not yet washed all the blood off his face and chest, and she finds she likes the way it looks spattered over his golden skin. She pictures him on the battlefield, drenched in the blood of his enemies, and she finds a dark thrill runs through her. Odin above, if she ever gets to witness him in battle, she knows she will lie down amongst the carnage and spread her legs for him right then and there.

"Get in, little wife," his commanding voice breaks through her thoughts, "before you catch a chill."

She obeys, shedding her cloak and nightgown at the water's edge. She cannot help the blush that spreads across her cheeks as Ivar looks over her body. His eyes linger over the marks he has made, and she shudders as he licks his lips hungrily. 

"You are such a pretty sight," he croons as she submerges herself in the warm water. "Come here and let me touch you. It has been too long already since I felt your skin on mine."

She goes to him eagerly, her body already crying for contact with his own. He grabs her hips as soon as she is in reach and pulls her to him. His lips meld fiercely with her own as his hands rove over her, rough calluses scraping pleasantly over her sensitive skin. She sighs and melts into him. She forgets all about Sigurd, her father, and what they soon must do. She only knows her husband's kiss and touch and the way they make her feel. They have only made love a mere hour ago, but she could have him again right here and now if he wished it. 

To her disappointment, he pulls away. She whines in protest and tries to chase his lips, but he simply laughs and swats her rear.

"We are here to actually bathe, my hellcat," he says, reaching behind him to grab a cloth from his pile of clothes. He wets it in the water. "Now close your eyes."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

"Do not question me, woman," he growls, "just do it."

She huffs but closes her eyes, and soon after she feels the wet cloth pass over her forehead and cheeks. Ivar washes her face slowly, gently rinsing away the blood. She feels her numbness fade a little with each stroke of the cloth. When he is finished with her face, she feels his lips trace over the clean skin. Her shoulders sag in relaxation, a soft sigh escaping. He simply chuckles and moves the cloth down her neck and over her shoulders, following every movement with his mouth. 

He washes her entire upper body this way, paying extra attention to the thin scars he has made on her. He traces each one reverently with one calloused finger, as if he cannot believe she has let him place them on her. She wants to tell him how much they mean to her, how she already feels his love every time she looks at them, but she is too relaxed. She simply hums in pleasure as he touches her, her bones practically liquid from his ministrations.

She opens her eyes when he reaches into the water and tugs on her leg. He gestures for her to sit on a taller rock. She obeys blissfully, and watches as he sits himself across from her, pulls one leg out of the water and sets to work. 

She has seen Ivar's gentle side, a rare occurrence, but this is something else entirely. It is reverent, almost worshipful. He touches her as if she is the most sacred treasure, to be looked after with the utmost care. She feels beloved, precious even. Her heart swells as she watches him finish with one leg and start on the other. Gudrik had said he'd hoped she'd chosen right; she knows she did. There could be no one for her but this man, so harsh and tough with the world yet so tender and loving with her and her alone.

"Are you very relaxed, mitt hjarta?" He asks, pressing a kiss to the sole of her foot. She nods, and he gives her a rare radiant smile. 

"Good," he presses kisses up her leg to where her lower thigh disappears under the water. She squirms slightly, a slow liquid heat pooling in her stomach. He just grins and shakes his head, knowing exactly what he is doing to her.

"Greedy thing," he teases, taking her hands and pulling her up until she stands in front of him. "Turn around and head under the water. Now."

She throws him a dirty look but does it anyways, wondering how else he will take care of her. It feels nice to submerge her head in the warm water. When she comes up, Ivar pulls her back and sits her on his legs. She smiles slightly, remembering the last time thy were here together. It feels like so long ago now. Then, he had pushed her away. 

This time, he settles her on his lap and begins combing his fingers through her wet hair. It feels so good, his large hands running over her head again and again. He twists the water out, then begins to braid the long dark strands. She is suddenly met with a picture in her minds eye of a little girl with dark hair and blue eyes, perched on his lap as he braids her hair, the two of them laughing. She has to blink back tears. What she would not give to keep that future. 

Ivar finishes, tying off the braid with a leather cord from around his wrist.   
She turns in his lap, settling herself with one leg on either side of him. 

She takes the cloth from where he has set it down and begins to do the same for him. She washes his face and torso, revelling in the feel of the hard muscles beneath her touch, and the soft sounds of contentment spilling from his lips. Her mouth follows the rivulets of water cascading down the miles of golden skin, worshiping his body like he has done to her. 

She skips his legs, as she is sitting on them and he cannot lift them up anyways. She does not want to ruin this peaceful intimate mood they have created. Instead, she works on his hair, wetting it with the cloth and massaging his scalp with her hands.   
He makes that lovely purring sound he always does when she touches his hair, eyes closing in pure ecstasy as he leans into her. 

"I think you need some marks to match mine," she says eventually, one hand in his hair while the other traces down the side of his neck. "Your skin looks frightfully bare."

 

He opens his eyes and gives her a feral smile. "Do you wish to carve me up, little wife?"

She nods, a faint blush staining her cheeks. "I want you to always have a reminder of me like I do of you," she whispers. 

His eyes grow soft, and he reaches up to cradle her face in his large hands. 

"You are always with me, mitt hjarta," he says softly. "You are inside my very being, knit into my blood and bones. There is no more Ivar without his Freja. Although," his dark smile returns, "I will not object to you wanting to take a knife to me. As much as I enjoy you under my blade, it could be very fun to be the one receiving instead."

She kisses him. "Only you could say such sweet and wicked things in the same breath, my love."

He just shrugs and pulls her close, folding her against him as she lays her head on his shoulder. They sit quietly like that for a while, just listening to each other breathe. 

"Thank you," she says eventually, and she hates how choked her voice sounds. "This morning has been....hard on me. This, what you have done for me here, is just what I needed."

He nuzzles her hair with his nose. "I do not like it when you lose your fire. I wanted you to find yourself again before we go to your father."

She sighs. "I should have told him from the very start. I should not have encouraged Sigurd. I have made a very big mess of things, haven't I?"

"Yes," he says, "but that does not matter anymore. Your father would react the same then as he will now. All that matters is that we find a way to stay together. I will not lose you."

Her hand closes around the necklace he has given her, her lips pressing against his neck. "Nor I you, husband of mine. But I am scared nonetheless."

She feels his arms tighten around her. "Fear is useless. It will not save you in battle and it will do us no good here. The gods watch over us, little wife. I was uncertain before, but I am not now." He grabs her chin and forces her to look up at him. "You were sent to me for a reason. To stand by my side as I avenge my father, and then as I conquer the world. Nothing and no one will change that, do you understand me?"

His grip is bruising, his blue eyes burning as he stares into her face. She feels a rush of confidence. He is right. They are blessed by the gods. How else would they have gotten this far? She has been wrong to doubt, to fear. She has been weak when she needs to be strong. 

"You are right," she says firmly, pushing all her fears aside. "You are Ivar Ragnarsson, the true heir to Ragnar Lothbrok. The gods favour us, or else we would not be where we are. We will overcome anything that is thrown in our path. I am no longer Freja Vidarsdottir; I am Freja the Hellcat, wife of Ivar the Boneless, and I will not see us defeated!"

His face lights up at her passion. "There you are, my wild woman," he growls, and then he is kissing her as if she is the very air he needs to breathe. She surrenders herself to him, as she always has and always will, letting him stoke the fire within her until everything inside of her burns. 

They make love right there in the water; a promise to each other. They will not back down. They will not give up. They have been brought together by the gods and they will not be torn asunder. Every opposition they face is simply a test. And they will pass every one with blood and fire.

Somewhere in the distance, a raven lets out a triumphant caw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't noticed, I have a severe soft spot for fluffy and sweet Ivar. Bad boys with hearts of gold just get to me. Ugh.


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Freja finally confront her father about their relationship.
> 
> TW: blood, violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long to get out! Was busy writing some other things for my Tumblr. I hope you enjoy this, it was a fun one to write. Thank you all for reading!

Her father is a large man.

He has never really taken the time to study him before. Now, as they approach him sitting outside his guest house, he takes the time to look the man over. He is quite tall and broad shouldered, with large arms and hands that look quite capable of strangling an enemy. His face is weathered but firm. He looks like a man who has seen many battles and each one have made him all the tougher.

He is a formidable foe.

He looks up at them as they draw near, his dark eyes narrowing in confusion at the two of them together. Beside him, he can feel Freja tense, her hands balling into fists at her sides. He wants to reach up and take the one closest to him, but he restrains himself. He cannot touch her now. She needs to speak first.

"Hello Father," she smiles, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. "How are you today?"

Her father shoots him a wary glance as he settles himself to sit opposite the older man. "I am well, daughter. My heart is greatly gladdened, as should yours, if you have not already been told."

He feels anger coil inside of him. He means Sigurd's proposal. He wants to scream at the man that it will not happen, that his brother will never have his little wife, but he bites his lip and stays quiet. 

"Yes, I have heard," Freja says quietly, and he can detect the tiniest shake in her voice. "Father, there is something-"

"Ivar," her father interrupts her, rising from his seat, "My daughter and I need to speak alone. Thank you for escorting her home. Come inside, Freja."

He bristles at the dismissive tone. Freja does not move. 

"Father, about the proposal-"

"We will discuss the terms I will set for your dowry inside," Vidar says shortly, laying a hand on her arm. "Come."

"But Father-"

"She is not marrying Sigurd."

Vidar turns towards him at the sound of his voice. He raises an eyebrow. "I think it is none of your concern who my daughter marries. Go home, Ivar. You have no further business being here."

He can feel the slow boil of his blood beneath the surface of his skin. He does not like to be brushed off like an unwanted pest. He gives Vidar a haughty glare. 

"I think you will find I do," he says sharply. "And you will show a son of Ragnar the respect he deserves."

Vidar opens his mouth to reply, but Freja cuts him off.

"Father, Ivar is right. He does have business being here. He is not simply escorting me home."

Vidar's brows pinch together. "What other reason could be possibly have for being here?"

Freja takes a deep, steadying breath. She steps over to stand beside him, a small hand alighting gently on his shoulder. "Father, I cannot marry Sigurd. I cannot, because...." she pauses, and her hand slides down his arm to touch his own. He entwines their fingers, squeezing gently. She squeezes back. "Because I have already married Ivar."

The silence that follows her words is deafening. 

Vidar stares at them, eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open. Freja's hand trembles in his, the skin clammy and slick with sweat. He grips it tighter, running a thumb across her knuckles in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture.

"You what?" Vidar finally speaks, his face a mask of shock. 

"I married Ivar," Freja repeats, and her voice gains strength. "I love him, Father. More than I have ever loved a man before."

"When-how-Sigurd-" Vidar sputters, and he can see the edges of the man's ears turning red.

"Last evening, before the sacrifice," Freja replies. She steps forwards, releasing his hand to reach imploringly for her father. "Please, Father, I am sorry for deceiving you. But I was so afraid of what you would say if you found out the truth! I used Sigurd as a cover, it was wrong of me I know, but I didn't know how-"

"You have been going to this, this cripple's bed every night?" Vidar's nostrils are flaring, his eyes flashing. "When I thought you were with a true son of Ragnar, you were defiling yourself with an outcast and a cripple?"

The insult stabs him in the gut like a hot, sharp knife. Always given the title of reject, of unfit and unworthy. He snarls, a hand going to the axe on his belt. 

"Do not speak to her that way," he bares his teeth. "I am just as important as any of my brothers! I am a true son of Ragnar, just like them!"

"Please Father," Freja begs. "Please do not overreact. Is it not enough that I am happy and loved?"

"How can he protect you, hmm? How can he give you children? Your future is gone!" Vidar's voice grows loud. "You stupid, wretched child! How could you do this?" He grabs her arm roughly, and she gasps in pain. "How could you let him use you so?"

"Father, stop, you're hurting me!"

The anger boiling within him threatens to explode. He raises his axe with a feral snarl. "Let my wife go! Before I bury this axe in your neck!"

Vidar rounds on him, Freja still in his grasp. "She is not your wife! She is my daughter, and I will not have her tied to the likes of you! You have done something to her. My Freja would never sully herself with someone who cannot even fight in battles!"

"She was chosen for me by the gods!" He's yelling now, red spots appearing in his vision. "I have dreamt of her for nearly a year. She is destined for me! You cannot take her from me!"

He will not let him. She is his. She is his chosen Queen, his little wife, he will not let her be taken. 

"Father," Freja is nearly in tears, trying to pull herself from his iron grip. "Father, please stop! Ivar loves me, he does! He has not tricked me, or forced me. I chose him of my own freewill! Please, can't you understand?"

"You will be going back home first thing on the morrow," Vidar yanks her to him. "I will speak with the Queen about annulling your foolish decision. I will make it like this never happened, I will-" He stops, eyes suddenly fixated on Freja's shoulder. Her dress has slipped with his harsh movements. Peeking out from under the coarse garment, a thin red line is just visible. 

"What is that?" Vidar asks, voice suddenly quiet.

Freja moves to cover his mark. "It's not what it looks like," she whispers, looking over at him with wide eyes. "It's not like Aric, it's not-"

But she does not finish, as Vidar lets go of her and draws his sword. 

He barely has time to roll away before the silver weapon comes crashing down, splintering the bench on which he was sitting. He rolls into a sitting position and draws his axe just in time for another blow to come raining down. He manages to block it, the force of the strike reverberating down his arm.

"Is that all you have, old man?" He taunts, the thrill of the fight welling up inside him. He blocks another blow, the sword biting into the handle of his axe. It sticks into the wood for just a second, and he takes advantage of that second. 

He reaches for his wedding knife on his belt, ducking under their stuck weapons and plunging the blade deep into Vidar's calf. The older man howls in rage and pain, ripping the sword out of his axe handle and striking at him wildly. He rolls, dodging each haphazard strike with practiced ease.

"Stop, please stop!" Freja rushes at her father, but one of his large hands simply pushes her aside. She falls to the ground with a hard thud, a pained wail escaping her lips as one of her arms twists awkwardly underneath her.

"You think you are untouchable?" Vidar calls out, sliver blade flashing in the sun. "You think just because of your parentage you will not pay for your crimes against my daughter?"

He dodges the blade yet again, striking out with his axe. It just makes its target, barely slicing into Vidar's undamaged leg. The older man drops to his knees with a cry of agony.

"She asks for it!" He bares his teeth in a battle-crazed grin, enjoying the sight of his enemy kneeling before him. "She asks me to do those things to her! Do you not know your daughter is a goddess of pain and destruction? That our love is written in flesh and blood? I own her now, old man. She is mine and mine alone!"

He crawls forward, axe raised to deliver his victory blow. He can hear Freja still begging them to stop from her spot on the ground. His eyes flick towards her briefly in triumph. Soon she will be rid of her wretched father, and they will be free to be to be together as the gods have intended. He feels the sweet taste of victory on his tongue.

But Vidar is not a seasoned warrior for nothing.

The man flips his sword around, handle facing outward. One large hand flies out and grabs hold of his axe, while the other thrusts forward with the butt of the sword handle.

It connects right with his face.

He feels his nose break; pain rushes through him as a fog descends over his mind. His ears are ringing with the force of the blow; it knocks him right onto his back. Strong hands close around his throat, and he struggles to take in a breath as they begin to choke him.

"You bastard!" Vidar's voice echoes through his fuddled mind. "Do you not know what happened to the last man who did such a thing to her? He is dead! Which is what you will be soon, you worthless piece of horse shit!"

"No, Father, no!" Freja is screaming, finding the strength to crawl over to them and try to tug the crushing hands away . Her voice sounds muffled, like he is underwater. The ringing in his ears intensifies.

It's him and Sigurd all over again, except this time he is the one in danger. He is the one helpless against the onslaught of rage. He struggles and squirms, his own anger hot inside him but unable to be let out. He should be burying his axe in this man's chest. Instead, he writhes around like a witless animal. He had been so close to victory. 

Then the hands are gone, and he takes in a huge breath. His fingers grope beside him for his axe, but they find only dirt. He can see the shining silver sword rising above him, sharp and deadly. He head is throbbing, blood is pouring out of his broken nose into his mouth, hot and coppery. But yet he stares as defiantly as he can up at Vidar. If he is to die here and now, he will not die begging. 

Then there is a flurry of movement, and his view is blocked by a mass of dark hair. Two arms slide around him protectively like a human shield. 

"You'll have to kill me!" Freja is yelling, her arms like a vice around him. "Strike him down, Father, but your sword will past through me first!"

"Move aside, daughter!" He can hear Vidar snarl. His head gives a ferocious throb, and his vision begins to go black around the edges. 

"No!" Freja's voice is defiant. "I will not stand by idle as you cut down the one who will conquer the world! We have been chosen Father, him and I, brought together by the hand of the gods! He loves me, Father. As I love him, most desperately. I will not let you take him away from me!" He can hear the scrape of metal against earth as she picks up his axe with her good arm. "I will defend him with every drop of blood in my body!"

His little hellcat, his vicious little wife. Her anger burns just as hot as his, and he loves her for it. Fire and blood, they had promised. They will defeat their enemies with fire and blood. Her father will burn and bleed before this is said and done. This is not the end.

The blackness creeps further into his vision. He wants to sit up, he wants to put his Freja behind him and take Vidar apart piece by piece. But he cannot move, can hardly think a coherent thought, and he hates both himself and his enemy for it.

Shouts echo somewhere in the back of his mind. He feels himself slip further and further into the awaiting darkness. He hears the shuffle of boots, the grunt of someone being tackled. Freja's warmth is ripped from his side. She's screaming and crying out for him, but he cannot respond. He tries to open his mouth but it's crusted shut with blood. He is teetering on the edge of the yawning abyss.

There is heavy movement in front of him, more shouts ring out. Then a boot connects with his side. He feels and hears the splintering crack, pain like wildfire racing along his body. The black abyss of unconsciousness reaches up and grips him in its claws, and he knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought!


	18. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hours after the fight, Freja manages to return to Ivar's side. Their reunion leaves much to be desired.
> 
> TW: fighting, minor descriptions of injuries, drugging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end of this one, folks! Probably a few more chapters still, I'd say like 5. Thanks for sticking around! This chapter originally turned out differently but I think this version is better. Enjoy!

She feels like she has cried a river of tears.

Her eyes burn from the salty water. Her throat is sore and hoarse from her frantic yelling. Her arm aches from falling upon it. Her nails are broken and bleeding from scratching at the door of this prison. 

Worst of all, her heart aches with a searing pain for her broken lover and her broken family. 

She has no doubt her father would have managed to cast her aside and split Ivar in two. If Ubbe and Bjorn had not heard the commotion and come running, she is sure her husband would be dead. Her love, lying in a pool of his own blood, eyes wide open and glassy. The thought makes her want to vomit. 

But his brothers had saved the day. They had pulled her father away, but not before he had managed to also kick the downed prince in the side. She had screamed at the horrible sound of ribs cracking, struggling to get to him as Ubbe held her back. Her father, not wanting to kill any other of the Ragnarssons, had surrendered immediately. Of course, then she had had to spill the whole story to them, as they were wondering why her father was attacking their brother in the first place.

In the end, to avoid more conflict, Bjorn told her father to take his grievances up with the Queen and to get his wounds treated. He had picked up the unconscious Ivar and taken him away to the healers. She had tried to follow, but her father ordered some of his men (who had also come when they heard the noise) to lock her in the guesthouse until he could "deal with his reckless daughter." So they had thrown her inside, scratching and screaming. They had cleared the place of all weapons and set a watch upon her. She had beaten and clawed at the door, screaming profanities and begging for her husband.

Now, hours later, she is pacing the floor. She is calmer, but she is still full of worry and anger. Worry for Ivar and his injuries, anger at her father for attacking blindly and not listening to her. But, she sighs to herself as she makes another turn of the room, can she really be mad at him? He has seen her abused before, and what Ivar does to her may look very similar in his eyes. He is only trying to protect her. But if he only would listen for a moment and know he does not have to. Ivar's way of love is something she would get on her knees and beg for. 

She continues to pace, lost in her thoughts. They are only broken when she hears voices outside the door, then the creak of the door handle. She is surprised when the same slave girl she paid to help her dress for her wedding comes in bearing a tray of food.

"Give her the food and get out," Borg, one of her guards, barks to the terrified girl. The slave quickly walks forward and sets the food on the table. 

"Master Ubbe sends this food and drink, my lady," she says hurriedly. "He says he hopes it will help you." She turns and scurries out as fast as she can. Borg shuts the door behind her with a bang. She can hear the slave girl nervously offering Borg and the other guard some mead. They agree heartily and she can hear the pouring of liquid into goblets. She turns to the food, frowning. How will food help her get out of here to Ivar?

She receives her answer not two minutes later. There is a loud crash from outside the cabin, and then the door is hurriedly being opened again.

"My lady!" The slave girl pokes her head inside. "My lady, throw on your hood and come! I am to take you to your husband."

She needs no second urging. She quickly tosses her cloak on and follows the girl, stepping over the large forms of Borg and the other man lying prone upon the ground. 

"Drugged, but unharmed," the slave whispers. "They will sleep for a good long while. Master Ubbe knows I am good with herbs."

She can feel herself begin to feel lighter. Odin bless her now brother in law. She hurries after the slave, tugging her hood tight so no one can see her face. 

They arrive not long after at the Ragnarsson cabin, and Ubbe steps out to meet them. He looks around quickly before dismissing the slave with a wave and ushering her inside.

She removes her hood as soon as the door closes behind her. "How is he?" She asks, unable to keep the worry from her voice.

Ubbe places a hand on her shoulder. "He will be alright. The healer reset his nose and bound his ribs. He will be fit to travel on the boats when we leave in three days time."

She breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank the gods." Her hand grabs the older Ragnarsson's off her shoulder and clasps it tight. "Thank you, Ubbe. I know it was not right to treat your other brother so, and we should have told you about us, but-"

Ubbe cuts her off with a shake of his head. "I am not pleased with your treatment of Sigurd, that is true. But," he gives her a small smile, "I have not seen Ivar so content as I have since you became his. He has always felt lonely, unloved by everyone but Mother. I am happy to see him find someone who brings a smile to that ever angry face. I would not keep you two from each other."

She cannot help it; she flings her arms around Ubbe and squeezes him tight. The man gives a short laugh and awkwardly pats her back.

"Go," he pushes her gently away from him, "he has been asking for you constantly since he awoke."

She nods and eagerly scrambles towards the back of the cabin where a makeshift curtain has been erected around Ivar's bed for privacy. She pushes it back and her heart gives a lurch at the sight of him.

He's lying shirtless in the bed, ribs bound with a clean white bandage. The blood has been washed off him, throwing his facial injuries into sharp relief. His nose is swollen but straight, his eyes already beginning to blacken. There is a cut on his upper lip, probably split from the force of the blow. It could have been worse, but it tears at her painfully nonetheless. His eyes are closed, but she can tell he isn't sleeping.

"Ivar?" She says softly, and his eyes open at her voice. She hopes to see relief or joy; instead she sees anger and bitterness. 

"You came," he says, but his voice is much too sharp. It grates against her skin, and it's all wrong. She perches lightly on the edge of the bed but does not yet reach for him.

"Ubbe says you have been asking for me. I came as soon as I could," she says in a gentle voice. She is unsure of the reason for this cold greeting, but knowing Ivar, he is probably just upset with the day's events. "Father locked me in the house and set a guard. But I am here now."

He glares at her. "I find now maybe I wish you not to be."

She ignores the twinge of pain those words invoke. "And why is that?"

He growls at her but says nothing, turning away to look at the wall. She waits a moment, but he remains silent. She tentatively reaches out and places her hand on his. He snatches it out from under her touch, and she feels anger well within her.

"Really, Ivar, you will not let your wife comfort you in your injured state? What a childish-"

"I failed you," he interrupts, fists clenching on the furs. "I was weak, I could not do what needed to be done. I failed!"

"Failed at what?" She crosses her arms. "Failed at killing my father? Let me ask you, husband, do you think I actually want my father dead? Is that what you were thinking would happen when we went to confront him?"

He turns to look at her then, and his eyes are blazing. "If he was we would have no more problems. No more opposition to our marriage. So yes, I was hoping to kill him if he did not listen. It seemed the only option!"

She grits her teeth so hard her skull begins to throb. "Your options are always violence and blood! I was stupid. I should have known that was your plan! I deluded myself into thinking you only fought because he attacked you first. Which, might I say, he only did because he thought you were abusing me!"

His hand shoots out and grabs her arm, dragging her closer to him. "So now you will defend him? Where is your loyalty? Where does it lie?" He practically shouts in her face. "With me! I am your husband, it should be with me! You are mine!"

She restrains from slapping him only because his face is already so bruised. "I am my own! I am not some prize to be claimed! And how dare you say such things to me? Did I not lie across your body and pick up your weapon to defend you? Did I not scream to my father how you were made for me? Did I not vow to protect you with my very life? There lies your answer! But he is my father, and I love him too!"

Her eyes burn and her hands shake, and even though she thought she could cry no more, the tears begin to come. 

"Do not cry, woman," her husband snaps at her, squeezing her arm tightly. "I cannot stand a blubbering maiden!"

"Then stop being the cause of my tears!" She yanks herself out of his grip, turning her back on him as she wipes at her eyes. "Stop telling me you wish the man that raised me was dead! Stop being angry and insulting towards me when I've been so worried about you all day! Think about someone other that yourself for one damn minute!"

"Do you wish you never met me, little wife?" His hand wraps around her shoulder and forces her back to face him. His face is red with anger, making the purple bruises around his eyes even more ugly. He snatches her left hand and presses his finger against the scar that serves as her wedding band. "Do you wish you never tied yourself to the selfish, bloodthirsty, useless cripple? The crazy man who wants your father dead and you all to himself? Maybe you will get your wish. Maybe Lagertha will listen to your father and find a way to do away with us!"

Her heart splits at his harsh words. "Why do you say such things? How can you after all that we have been through? You know you are my destiny, my path! I would have let you be struck down if I wished us parted!" She pulls her hand from his grip and stands from the bed. She sniffles, attempting to compose herself. "I love you, Ivar. With everything that I am. Until I leave this world, my heart is yours. You know this! You are scored upon my flesh, you are burned into my bones. Just because I wanted a peaceful solution to this conflict does not nullify these facts!" She stares down at him, suddenly feeling weary and weak. "I am going now. I hope your injuries heal quickly. I imagine my father has spoken to Lagertha, and we will have to face her judgment before the boats leave. I will see you when she calls for us."

She turns to leave, part of her hoping he will let her go, part of her wishing for him to call her back. She had thought he would welcome her with open arms, that she would kiss his bruises and soothe him with her love. But she should have known better. Ivar by nature has to make everything complicated.

She does not regret her choices; what she spoke to him is the truth. She would bind herself to him every single time. He is full of good and love and tenderness, she knows this. But even the sweetest and best things can come with a price. And Ivar's darker side makes her pay it. She wonders if that makes her crazy, like Sigurd had said. 

He says nothing; he does not call her back. So she squares her shoulders and leaves the room. She will go back to her prison and await her judgment. 

Fire and blood, they had said. Pass every test with fire and blood. Well, she had not thought the blood would be so literal. A poetic wound, a dash in the plans pre made for her, not the killing of either of the men she loves most. Not the gashes in her father's legs, or the broken nose of her husband. And the fire?

They are the fire. They burn each other with every touch, with every word. With anger, with passion, with darkness and light. They will either set the world ablaze or fizzle out into ashes and dust. 

And today cannot help but feel a little like ashes and dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm riding the angst train, first class.


	19. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Freja are summoned to the Great Hall to explain themselves to the Queen and hear their judgement.
> 
> TW: none

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I left you all hanging by the feels last chapter, hopefully this one does not make you so emotional! Enjoy and please let me know what you think :)

"I should carry you. You will damage your ribs even further."

He grits his teeth against the searing pain in his side, slowly dragging his body forward across the cabin floor. "I am fine, Ubbe."

His older brother clicks his tongue. "It is a long way to the Great Hall, and-"

"I said I am fine!"

Ubbe raises his hands in defeat, and the matter is dropped. He needs to do this himself. He needs to show that bastard a broken nose and a few cracked ribs will not hold him back. That he will never back down, will never give up on this fight for his sweet little wife.

If she will still have him.

He is not sorry he wants to kill her father. That sentiment will never change. But he forgets, as tough and vicious as she is, his Freja is not like him. She has a tender heart underneath her claws, and of course she would balk at the idea of killing family. He should not have pushed the matter like he did. And he should not have questioned her loyalty.

The raw pain on her face and in her voice when he had asked if she regretted their marriage still gnaws at him. It's fuzzy, but he remembers her words as she put herself between him and the sword, remembers the defiance in her voice as she cradled his beaten body in her arms. She had defended him in his moment of weakness. And he had thrown it all back in her face.

He is a terrible husband. He deserves to have Lagertha find some way to dissolve their union. He never has and never will be worthy of the beautiful creature he would tear apart all the Nine Realms for. 

"Lagertha cannot annul your marriage," Ubbe speaks as if he can read his mind. "It was sealed by a man of the gods and the main rituals were completed. Floki can witness if need be, he would be able to confirm everything."

"She is slippery, she may find a way," he growls, wincing as he drags himself over a particularly rough patch of ground. "I would not put it past her."

He is certain Lagertha could find some flimsy excuse to grant Vidar his request if she wished it. She hates him, and what more of a blow could she deliver than by taking away his very heart? He is injured and leaving for England the day after tomorrow, he would not even be able to strike back. The thought of being separated from Freja is sickening. He cannot imagine his life without her now. 

They reach the Great Hall finally, and his body cries for respite. Still, he steels himself and crawls inside. He is of course the last one there; the Hall is packed with witnesses. Lagertha sits on his mother's throne, flanked as usual by Torvi and Astrid. He can see familiar faces dispersed around the room; all his brothers, Harald and Halfdan, Margrethe. In the centre of the room there is a chair for him, and to the left of it stands Vidar, Gudrik and Freja.

He cannot help the missed beat of his heart when he lays eyes upon his little wife. She is standing with a few feet separating her from her father, back ramrod straight and hands clenched tightly at her sides. Ethereal beauty and iron strength all in one. He can feel his desire for her stirring in his blood.

Everyone's gaze swivels to him as he crawls painfully towards the chair. He does not know how he will get on it by himself. He does not want Ubbe to lift him. Not in front of Lagertha or all these people. When he reaches the damned thing he starts to pull himself up, only to be struck halfway with an excruciating wave of pain. He sways slightly, gripping the chair with all his might. Suddenly warmth presses against him, and tiny hands slide under his armpits.

"I've got you, Ivar," her voice says quietly in his ear, and he is so lost in the gentle softness that he lets her help him onto the chair. When he is sitting, she lets go but to his joy and relief she does not go far. She stands beside him, hands clasped in front of her. He tries to catch her eye but she is looking straight at Lagertha. He turns his gaze towards the usurper as well, who has now begun to speak.

"Jarl Vidar Einarsson," she inclines her head towards the grim faced man. "You have made a strange request of me. You claim your youngest daughter Freja has married Ivar Ragnarsson in secret, and you wish to have the marriage dissolved. This is not something to be taken lightly. On what grounds do you say the marriage should be made void?"

Vidar steps forward and bows respectfully. "Queen Lagertha, you know as well as any how unstable Ivar the Boneless is. He is prone to fits of rage and cruelty, hardly a man suitable for my daughter. He cannot walk or fight, and there are rumours that he cannot provide Freja with children. In addition, I have seen with my own eyes the abuse he has caused against my child."

He snarls at the word "abuse" and goes to open his mouth, but Vidar continues on.

"My daughter has fallen victim to a man like this in the past, and I do not wish for it to happen again. I am begging you, from one parent to another, to absolve this abominable union and let my little girl be free to marry another."

"I am nothing like that swine she was married to before," he bristles, unable to hold his tongue. "I do not abuse her!"

"I have seen the marks, you worthless cripple!" Vidar hisses at him. "You cannot say taking a knife her is not abuse!"

"It isn't when she begs for it!" He relishes the look in the older man's eyes when he says "beg". If only he knew how much his precious sweet daughter loves being under a blade. 

"We will hear about this from Freja," Lagertha cuts them off, gesturing to the woman at his side. "Child, what have you to say about all this?"

He can feel the tension rolling off her body. He wants to pull her down on his lap and give her the comfort of his embrace while she talks to these vipers. Instead, he grips the arms of the chair until his knuckles are white.

"I will tell you everything," Freja says in a shaky but clear voice. And she does. She starts from their very first meeting, to her fake courtship with Sigurd, to their secret marriage amongst the trees. She tells them everything except the most intimate of details. He finds himself almost enraptured with her tale, though he knows it well. The way she speaks of him, with love in her eyes and desire in her voice, it is enough to strike him to the core.

"And what of the allegations is abuse?" Lagertha asks when she has finished. "And you mentioned sharing a bed. Am I to assume the rumours are not true then?"

He wants to cut that stupid Margrethe into pieces for spreading the rumour of his impotence. He feels a slight surge of smugness though, knowing his woman is about to put that damning claim to rest. 

"If you mean does Ivar's cock work, then yes," Freja says bluntly, and his lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. "We had a very satisfying wedding night."

Her father makes a strange choking noise, and he can hear snickering coming from the crowd. He sits up a little straighter, his sore chest swelling slightly with pride. If they only could see her when he has his way with her body, see the passion in her eyes, hear her cries of pleasure and moans of his name....no one would ever doubt his abilities again. 

"As for abuse, he does not do that," Freja shakes her head. "It is true, I ask him to love me like he does. His marks upon my body are out of love and devotion, not anger and hate. What we do together in the privacy of our bedchamber is no business of anyone else."

"Strange tastes you have," Lagertha says, and he growls as her eyes turn to him. "Who married you two? And if you are married, where are your rings?"

"Floki married us," he says, fixing the false Queen with a deadly stare. "He performed all the sacrifices and said all the right words. I do not known where he is today, but you can fetch him and ask him if you like. As for our rings," he raises his left hand, "they are right here."

The healed red line stands out boldly against his skin. Beside him, Freja extends her hand as well. A shocked murmer runs through the crowd. Vidar looks positively livid. 

"Queen," he says, looking as though he is doing everything he can to stop himself from dragging Freja away. "I am telling you, this cannot stand. Scars for rings? It is disgusting! My daughter is somehow bewitched by this madman. His mother was a witch, perhaps he has inherited some of her dark powers!"

Anger burns through him, hot and chaotic. "How dare you say such things about my mother? She had the gift of Sight, something to honour and not to spit upon. And I have not bewitched Freja. Have you not been listening, old man? She spoke from her own mouth how she was drawn to me before I even said two words to her! You are grasping at nothing. No matter what is decided here, she is my wife and I will sail to England with her by my side, where she belongs!"

He inclines his head towards Lagertha. "I have dreamt of Freja Vidarsdottir for a year, Lagertha. I have heard the gods whisper her name to me. I have married her and laid claim to her, not only to please the gods but also for my own pleasure. No one can separate us!"

"I will kill you!" Vidar shouts, stepping towards him. "I will rip you apart, you lying, manipulative bastard!"

He bares his teeth at the frenzied man. "You already tried once, and you were stopped. Next time you try, you will fail because my axe will cut off your head!"

"You piece of-"

"Enough!" It is Freja's voice that rises above their squabble. "Queen Lagertha, my father means well but he does not understand. He has seen me at the mercy of an evil man before and his eyes will not adjust from that. He still sees me as the frightened, weak willed little girl I once was. But I am strong. I killed my abusive former husband as he attacked me."

She turns to face her father, who looks positively shocked at her words. "Gudrik lied, Father. I killed Aric. I beat his skull into a bloody pulp." She raises her arm and points to him in his chair. "But this man loves me, and I love him. There is no need for this proceeding. I married him of my own free will, fully knowing what I was doing. As Ivar said, whatever the outcome of this, I will still be his wife. You can order our marriage annulled, you can ship me back home. But I will always be his. You, a powerful woman but a mere mortal, cannot truly change what the gods have ordained."

The room is silent. Even he feels stunned. It is incredible, how she can move his very being with her words. Every time she declares something with fire and passion, he aches to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. What a glorious mouth! Sweet as honey mead and sharp as a berserker's blade. 

Lagertha studies his little wife for a moment, her face creased in concentration. There is no sound except the frantic rush of his breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out....

And then a smile breaks over the Queen's face, and she extends her hand to Freja in acceptance. 

"You speak with great passion, and from your heart," she says. "Far be it from me to go against the gods desires. I will not annul this marriage."

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Vidar steps forward, face going red with anger, but Lagertha stops him with a stern look.

"You will not harm either your daughter or Ivar while they are in Kattegat," she declares. She turns her stern look to him. "Nor will you harm this man, Ivar Ragnarsson. There will be no more blood spilt over this matter."

He glares defiantly back at her, but ultimately nods his consent. They are still married, his wife is still his. He will not risk provoking Lagertha's wrath. Besides, he is only in Kattegat for another two days. Once they are in England however, that will be a different story. 

"Then this matter is closed," Lagertha rises, sweeping her fur cape around her. "You are free to go. I have other things that need attending to." She motions to Torvi and Astrid, and the three of them descend from the dias and make their way out of the Hall.

The crowd erupts into excited chatter. Relief finally sweeps through him like a tidal wave. Ubbe rushes forward and claps him on the shoulder while Sigurd glares at him from his spot in the corner. Hvitserk is looking like he just watched the most entertaining thing he has ever seen. Vidar turns and stalks away without even a word to Freja or to him, Gudrik trailing apathetically behind him. And his sweet little wife, she climbs right into his lap and kisses him. 

He grabs her by the back of the neck and holds her close, mouth melding to hers as she clutches at his shirt. Her kiss is hard and defiant, as if she is daring someone else to just try to keep them apart. It is not comfortable to hold her, his whole body aches but he does not want to let go. They have done it. They have overcome what tried to destroy them, and he hopes they are stronger for it. When she eventually ends the kiss, she sighs and leans her forehead against his.

"You must be exhausted," she murmurs, hands stroking gently over his chest. "Have Ubbe take you back home. I will meet you there shortly. We have much to discuss- and celebrate."

He grips the back of her neck tighter, anchoring her to him. "What are-"

"Sshhh," she hushes him, leaning back so she can press her lips to his brow. "I have some things I need to do first. Do not worry, I will be curled around you in your- no, our bed shortly."

He wants to protest, wants to keep holding her here, wants all to see that she is still his. But his body is screaming to lie down. So he reluctantly nods and releases her neck. She presses one more kiss to his lips and slides off his lap.

"Get him back to bed and make him comfortable. Carry him even though he will protest. He does not need to injure himself further," she orders Ubbe, who chuckles but agrees. She runs one finger over the red mark scarred upon his left hand. "I love you, husband forever," she says quietly, and then she is gone, flitting out of the Hall like a warm spring breeze. 

"Some woman you have got yourself, brother," Ubbe says.

His woman. His little wife forever. They could not be broken by Sigurd, Vidar or Lagertha. He is battered and bruised but victorious. And though a very small part of him is almost grudging to admit it, he knows his Freja is much to thank for where they are. He lets his lips quirk into a small smile. 

"Some woman indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was not much Ivar/Freja interaction this chapter, but it will certainly come in the next one.


	20. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their victory, Freja attempts two last apologies before returning to Ivar's side. 
> 
> TW: talking about having sex around death and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! Hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for your reviews and kudos! I'm so overwhelmed by the response to this little project. I love you guys!

Her heart sings madly in her chest as she rushes her way through the paths of Kattegat. She wants to skip and leap about like a child in springtime. She will not be physically separated from her desire, her destiny, her only love. It is a victory worth shouting to the mighty mountains surrounding her. 

She aches to be back with Ivar, to nestle herself against him and savour the taste of relief and triumph on his velvety tongue. She is still somewhat angry with him for his behaviour yesterday, but the outcome today has those feelings being pushed to the background. Kissing him briefly in the Hall had not been enough. She has not properly been close to him since yesterday morning and it chafes at her. But she is a tender soul, and she feels she must try to speak to the wounded parties before she revels in her husband's company.

As expected, when she arrives at the guesthouse, her father is nowhere in sight. Gudrik sits alone outside. She slows her steps, taking a deep breath before approaching.

"Hello, brother," she greets him softly, and is relieved when he gives her a small smile in return.

"Hello Freja," he says, standing from his bench. "It's been quite the last few days, hasn't it?"

She sighs. "It has. I wanted to try to speak to Father one last time before we leave, but I imagine he does not want to see me right now."

Gudrik shakes his head. "He is not taking Lagertha's decision well. He was counting on her dislike of Ivar to sway her to his side."

"It could have very easily gone that way," she agrees, reaching out to take his hand. "Please tell him I love him. Tell him I am still his daughter, even though I am a wife now. Tell him I hope one day we can put all this behind us. Please, Gudrik."

She can feel her eyes begin to well up with tears. Gudrik pats her hand then pulls her into a hug. "I will, litt systr. I hope you will be happy with him. Give me some more nieces and nephews, hmmm?"

She blushes but hugs him tight. "Thank you, Gudrik. You have always been a comfort to me."

He pulls back and tweaks her ear, like he used to when she was little. "What are big brothers for? Now, run off to your husband. I'm sure he's waiting for you."

She nods, smiling, and he shooes her off. She is saddened she could not speak directly with her father, but she had been clinging to a very thin hope. She knows Gudrik will relay the message and for now, that is good enough.

She has one more stop before she can run back to Ivar. She traces her steps back to the Great Hall, hoping that her next target will be there. In fact he is, lounging with Hvitserk in a corner as they pick at some food. He gives her a sour look as she approaches, but Hvitserk greets her kindly.

"Welcome, new sister!" He grins, saluting her with his mug of mead. "We have not ever been introduced. I am Hvitserk, the best looking brother."

She can't help but grin back at him. "I would beg to differ."

Hvitserk laughs. "Such cheek! No wonder Ivar snatched you up." He elbows Sigurd, who scowls. 

"What are you doing here?" He growls at her.

She clasps her hands nervously. "I wanted to talk to you. Apologize one more time. It really was not right, what I did."

Sigurd continues to scowl at her, not saying anything. She decides to just hurry up and say her piece and get out of there.

"You barely knew me," she says, "and I don't think we are suited for each other. That doesn't excuse my actions, but it is the truth. We would have been miserable together." She softens her tone. "There is someone out there for you, Sigurd. Someone who will love you and all you have to offer. It just is not me."

Sigurd remains quiet, but his scowl lessens just slightly. Hvitserk looks thoughtful. She nods respectively st the both of them, and then turns to leave. She has said all she can say. It is time to return to where she belongs.

Ubbe smiles and winks at her when she finally makes it to the cabin. She smiles back at him, slipping inside and eagerly removing her cloak. She can hear Ubbe chuckle as he steps outside and closes the door, but she does not care. Let everyone see how much she desires to be near her husband. She is not ashamed of her need for him. 

She finds him resting under the furs, eyes closed. His ribs have been rebound and there are fresh pain and sleeping herbs on the table beside him. The healer must have stopped by before she arrived. She hurries over to the bed and sits down beside him. He immediately opens his eyes as she does so, and a tired smile crosses his face. 

"Mitt hjarta," he reaches up and trails two fingers down the side of her face. She closes her eyes and shivers in delight at the touch. "You have finally returned to me."

She opens her eyes and catches his hand, pressing a soft kiss to his palm. "As I always will, husband of mine."

He growls, snatching his hand out of hers to grab her braid and give it a hard tug. "Come here, little wife."

She follows his insistent tugging eagerly, lying down beside him as he presses their lips together. She sighs happily into his mouth, running a hand through his soft hair and scratching her nails along his scalp. He purrs like a kitten, catching her bottom lip between his teeth. The moan that leaves her is low and full of desire. It makes him kiss her harder, nipping and sucking at her lips with such desperate force that her very blood feels like it is boiling beneath her skin. She scrabbles to try to get closer, to eliminate every last inch of space between them when he suddenly gives a sharp hiss of pain.

She pulls away from him immediately, horror flooding through her. "Oh Ivar, your ribs! I completely forgot! Are you okay?"

He rolls his eyes at her, wincing as he adjusts himself on the bed. "I am fine, woman. Get back down here, I am nowhere near finished with you."

Her body screams to obey him, but she shakes her head. "We shouldn't do much more, you could injure yourself further! I just got carried away, being so happy with what happened today, but you need rest, and-"

"You talk too much," he groans, and she can see the tension building in his body. "I thought you said we had much to celebrate? I get to keep you as my wife. We have passed this test, as we said we would. I want to have you, woman. Ribs be damned!"

She leans down and strokes his hair again, attempting to calm him before he riles himself up. "We do, my love. There is no woman happier than me in this moment. But the....rougher celebrations will maybe have to wait. As much as I desire to have you inside of me, I would hate for you to hurt yourself further. For now, perhaps I shall just undress and lie down with you? Even just your naked skin against mine would feel like a celebration to me. Perhaps if you are feeling better tomorrow we can try to love each other."

He glares at her for a moment, and she thinks he will protest, but then his face collapses into the weariness he was trying to hide, and he just nods. He is exhausted, she can see that. Dragging himself all the way to the hall, sitting in that chair for so long, it has drained him. As much as she hates it too, their lovemaking will just have to wait.

Instead, she stands and slips off her dress and underdress. Ivar watches her through hungry, half lidded eyes. He makes a soft noise of approval when she is completely nude, and she cannot help but flush slightly. She is completely comfortable with him, but he can still make her blush like a virgin maiden. 

She slips beneath the furs, snuggling up to him on his right side, which is free of injury. She sighs in contentment as their skin touches. He wraps one strong arm around her, warm and solid, and she feels such happiness that this is still hers. They no longer have to fight. They have conquered, and now they may take their victory rest.

They lie in silence for a few moments, just savouring being next to each other. She wants to turn her face into his chest and drift off to sleep, but their fight from yesterday keeps coming to the forefront of her mind, and she knows she must address it.

"Ivar, about what happened yesterday-" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"I am not sorry about wanting to kill your father," he says, and she stiffens in his grasp. "But, I should not have spoken to you the way I did. It was wrong to question your loyalty or accuse you of regretting our marriage. I am sorry I made you cry."

It is the first time he has ever apologized outright, and it strikes her dumb for a brief second. She wants to berate him for still harbouring a desire to murder her father, but the fact that he is sorry for the rest of it seems to be overshadowing everything else. She sighs, propping herself up on her arm to look him in the eyes. His face is calm, but his eyes show the depth of his regret. She decides not to push the father issue. They have been through enough for now. And she is genuinely happy he has made any sort of apology at all.

"Thank you, I accept your apology," she says, leaning forward to quickly kiss him. "I will not tolerate such treatment, and I am happy you acknowledge your wrongs. Let us put it behind us, and focus on what lies ahead. We are still married, and we leave for England the day after tomorrow. I am very excited to see the land of the Saxons-and to see you all covered in their blood, of course."

He groans, and the arm around her slips lower, his broad hand skimming down her side and over her hip. "How I want to kill those bastards and then make you scream my name. Would you like me to have you on the battlefield, little wife? Where the dying can hear you beg for me? Would you like being covered in blood my axe has made flow?"

The shiver the rips through her at his words is violent. "You know I would," she says, and her voice is breathy. "You know that my desires are one with yours, husband of mine." 

A hand reaches up and grips her throat, fingers flexing hard against her skin. "The gods have given me the most precious gift when they gave me you," his voice his hoarse and tinged with need. "I do not speak the flowery fluff most men say to their wives, for I find it weak and full of nonsense. But hear me now."

His gaze becomes something soft and blazing all at once. "I love you, Freja, my Hellcat, my sweet little wife. I would kill for you, I would die for you, I would tear the Nine Realms apart for you. I would forsake the gods if you asked me to, if you demanded my worship I would bow down and lay myself at your feet in reverence. I love you so consumingly and so completely. For as long as I live, I will never want another. You are my light, my heart, my life. We are bound together by more than just marriage vows; the gods have taken our souls and woven them together with unbreakable threads. As we saw this morning, no one and nothing can separate us. My Freja, until the world breaks asunder and the gods perish in fire, I will be yours."

She cannot help it, she flings herself forward and crushes herself against him. He gives a pained noise but hugs her tightly. There are no words she can say. She knows he loves her, she can feel it in his every touch, but to hear him say it like that is enough to make her heart burst from happiness. She cannot do anything but cling to him and write her feelings onto the skin of his neck with her trembling lips. If she never hears those three words pass his lips again, she will still be content. This moment, after all they have been through, will echo inside her for a thousand lifetimes. 

Eventually she remembers his ribs, and releases his neck from the clutch of her lips. He makes a whine of protest, but she shushes him and moves to get the herbs on the bedside table. 

"I think we both need a good rest," she says, and her voice shakes with unshed tears. "You should take your herbs. I will stay here with you while you sleep, if you like."

It is a testament to how tired he is that he does not protest. He opens his mouth and lets her press the leaves under his tongue. She adjusts the furs and pillows around him, then settles herself down next to him. She starts to hum an old lullaby her mother used to sing, and gently threads one hand through his hair. His eyes close, and a soft sigh of pleasure escapes him. 

"Sleep now, beloved husband," she croons softly, watching as the tension begins to melt from his muscles. "I will watch over you. Sleep, Ivar, and know I love you."

She continues to stroke his hair and sing softly to him, until his breathing evens out and his face goes slack. She then careful takes the leaves out of his mouth, placing them back on the table to remind herself to go ask for more later. 

She watches him sleep for a moment, his bruised face so calm and peaceful. She leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his forehead, closing her eyes and inhaling his musky scent.

"Pleasant dreams, husband," she whispers, laying herself back down beside him. She adjusts them so his arm is wrapped around her and her head is resting on his shoulder. Her eyes grow heavy, and she feels sleep claiming her. 

One last look up at Ivar slumbering peacefully, and she succumbs to dreams with a triumphant smile etched upon her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for the fluffy fluff. And I feel these two needed it after the last few chapters!


	21. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Freja take some time for themselves in the aftermath of what has happened, and think a little ahead to their future. 
> 
> TW: blood, knifeplay, mild sexual content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! Sort of fell out of writing for a while. But I'm back! I hope you enjoy this chapter, it felt good to write these crazy lovebirds again!  
> Thank you all for your continued support :)

It's sometime in the night when he finally wakes fully. 

He shifts slightly in the bed, stretching his body gently to test the feeling of his side. It still hurts, but he is pleased to note the pain is considerably less. No doubt due to the healer's herbs and the tender care of his sweet little wife. She had not left his side since her return earlier that day. She administered the herbs, fed him soup, sung soft lullabies to him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He does not remember receiving such loving care since he was a small child. It makes his heart ache in gratitude just to think about it.

As his eyes adjust to the dim light of the low burning fire, he becomes acutely aware that the woman on his mind is not in bed beside him. He frowns. All day she had let slaves get whatever he needed, surely she did not leave him alone here in the middle of the night just to fetch something? 

In answer, he hears the door to the cabin creak open. A gust of cool wind ruffles the curtains around the bed, and he shivers as the breeze dances over his bare skin. The door clicks shut, and soft footfalls make their way over to his bed. The curtains are pushed back, and a lovely familiar silhouette slips through them.

"Where were you?" He asks, and Freja emits a soft startled cry and jumps slightly.

"Oh, Ivar," she says, clutching a hand to her breast. "You scared me! I thought you were sleeping!"

"I was," he says, watching her remove her cloak to reveal her thin underdress. He licks his lips at the sight, feeling the stirrings of desire deep within his bones. Freja shivers against the coolness of the night, and he stretches out a hand to lift the furs beside him. "But then I awoke to a distinct lack of a warm body pressed against my own."

She ignores the lifted furs and instead busies herself with pulling things out of a satchel she is carrying, setting them down on the table beside the bed. "I'm sorry, I was down at the healers getting more herbs. I did not want to wake any of the slaves, not when I was already awake myself."

He rolls his eyes. Typical, tender hearted Freja. "Forget the herbs and get in this bed, woman, before you catch a chill."

She huffs at him, but slips off her boots and crawls in next to him. He immediately pulls her close and tilts her face up to capture her lips. She complies, her warm mouth welcoming his questing tongue. He suddenly realizes it has been far too long since he has had her. She refused him earlier, not wanting him to injure himself any further. But the sweetness of her mouth and the press of her warmth is calling to him. He aches to feel her soft skin under his hands, to see her body unclothed before him. 

He slides one hand down to grab the bottom of her underdress. She stills against him, her lips releasing his as she pulls away. He groans, seeing the frown on her face and not liking it one bit. 

"Ivar," she warns, knowing exactly what he had been trying to do. "I'm not sure that is a good idea...."

He growls, fisting the hemline of her dress and giving it a tug. "You promised if I was feeling better we would try in the morning. It is early, but it is morning and I am feeling better. So let me undress you, little wife."

He fixes her with an intense stare, letting her see his desire for her in his eyes. She bites her plump bottom lip in hesitation, and the sight of white teeth sinking into pink flesh makes him almost moan out loud.

"You know I desire you, husband," she says slowly, placing a small hand over his steadily beating heart. "It is all I have wanted since our victory in the Hall. But you are still injured and we have to sail tomorrow. I would not be able to forgive myself if I hurt you further."

He scoffs, about to protest when an idea suddenly strikes him. His lips instead curve into a wicked grin. He knows how to get his Freja to agree to love him. He lets go of her dress and motions to the table beside them.

"I need my wedding knife, mitt hjarta."

Her brows crease. "Your knife? Why? If you think you are going to cut this dress off me, you-"

"The knife," he says in his most commanding tone, cutting her off. She purses her lips but complies, sitting up to grab the blade. She goes to hand it to him, but he shakes his head.

"It's not for me, my Freja. It's for you."

Confusion flits briefly across her face, followed quickly by dawning comprehension. He can practically see her minds eye picturing their conversation in the pool on their wedding morning. A soft "oh" escapes her lips, and he does not miss the slight shift of her hips under the furs.

"I am not some delicate creature," he says, feeling the heat in his blood rise as he watches her fiddle with the shining weapon. "I am a man, and I can take whatever my little wife chooses to do to me. Injured or not." 

Her eyes are wide, the pupils slowly swallowing the grey of her irises like the clouds swallow the sun. The reserve is slowly draining out of her, and he grins like a cat who knows he's about to get the cream.

"Mitt hjarta," he murmurs, running a finger down the length of her arm and delighting in the shudder that wrecks her body, "I want you. I need you. I am placing myself completely at your mercy. Do with me as you desire, my sweet Freja. Just do not make me wait any longer."

Her resolves wavers for a minute more....then snaps.

She pushes the furs off of him, throwing one leg over his hips so she can straddle him. He hisses softly in pain as her hips collide with his but he welcomes the feel of her on top of him. He cranes his neck up for a kiss but she stops him with a firm hand to his chest. 

"Lie back," she says, and her voice rings with authority. He desperately wants to wrap his hands around her pretty white throat and pull her to him, but he makes himself lie down. She is in control now. And he will let her have her way.

He watches as her eyes roam over his exposed neck and chest, her head cocked to the side like she is trying to decide where to start. He fidgets under her intense gaze, finding the anticipation hard to bear. 

"Hmmm," she hums softly, leaning forward to run the tip of the blade over his cheek and down his neck. He cannot help the shiver that runs through him at the feel of the cool metal against his feverish skin. "So much skin, where do I start?" He sucks in a breath as the blade knicks his collarbone lightly. "Here seems good."

She presses the blade into his collarbone, and he lets out a groan as the skin splits underneath the sharp metal. It feels too good. Freja wriggles in his lap excitedly when she sees the blood, her grey eyes wide and pink mouth open in delight.

"Oh, I like this," she breathes, leaning down to run her tongue along the broken skin, just like he does to her. His eyes roll back slightly and another groan escapes his throat. He makes to grab onto her, but she raps his knuckles sharply with the flat of the knife.

"Not until I say so," she orders, and he pouts at her but returns his hands to his sides. She moves the knife over to the other collarbone and creates a matching mark on it. His hands clench into fists. She notices, and grins.

"Poor Ivar," she coos, once again pressing her mouth to the red stain on his chest. "You want to touch me so badly, do you not? You want control, to dominate me and make me submit to you? Oh, husband of mine," her smile is practically feral, and he twitches almost uncontrollably at the sight of his blood smeared across her chin. "I will make you see what you do to me when you are the one holding the power- and the knife."

It's sweet agony and bliss all at the same time. She doesn't make too many marks (he knows she is still being cautious with his injuries), but she tortures him what seems like endlessly with the cool blade and her warm mouth and her hips pressed tightly against his. And just when he thinks he is about to snap, that he cannot stand anymore of her delicious torment, she tosses away the knife and rucks up the bottom up her dress. Her eyes are wild and hungry, and he knows she is panting for him just as badly as he for her.

"I cannot take it anymore," she groans, leaning down to nip sharply at his jaw. "Touch me, Ivar. Put your hands on me while I make love to you. Please!"

He's only too happy to comply, growling as one hand grips her throat and the other anchors itself on her hip. Both hands squeezes tightly as she presses herself onto him, twin sighs of satisfaction mingling in the night air.

Neither can last long; they are both too keyed up. Freja is first, clawing at his chest as she whimpers and whines his name. He is not far behind, and his whole body aches with the force of it. He will definitely be sore now for a while, he thinks, cradling a shaking Freja to him as she slips off of him and nestles against his side. But he does not care. He is happy and sated and he will take the pain if it means he got to be one with the woman he cherishes above anything else on this wretched world.

"Hmmmm, I liked being in charge," Freja hums against his neck, stroking a hand over his chest. "Are you okay? Does your side hurt very badly?"

He huffs. "It is fine, woman, quit worrying so and let me enjoy the aftermath of what just happened."

"You should take some herbs," she ignores him, making to sit up. He tightens his grip on her, keeping her pinned to him.

"Later, they make me sleepy and I do not want to sleep right now," he says firmly. "I want to enjoy this moment. So relax, little wife."

She gives him a slightly exasperated look but ultimately snuggles back into him. They lie quiet for a few moments, listening to the crackling of the fire and the soft sigh of the wind against the cabin walls.

"What will we do in England after your father is avenged?" Freja is the first to speak. "Will we raid further? Or will we return to Kattegat right away?"

He can't help but feel a rush of satisfaction at her use of 'we'. 

"We will raid and pillage until the Saxon lands are burned and bleeding," he says, thinking about all the Saxons he will kill with savage joy. "Then we will return home, and I will reclaim what is rightfully mine."

"Mmmm, you'll look good on a throne," Freja sighs. "King Ivar the Boneless, fearsome conqueror and mighty ruler. Bane of the Saxons, champion of the gods. What glorious titles! I only hope I can be a queen to match."

"A king is nothing without his queen," He strokes a hand down her arm. "Or his heirs. Do you think you could be with child already?"

"Perhaps," she yawns, nestling closer. "It is too soon to tell."

"We will have many children," he says, confident that since the gods have granted him the ability to make love, they will surely allow him to have offspring. "They will be strong and fierce, and will do great things. The sagas will tell of their adventures for generations to come."

"Like their father," Freja presses a kiss to his shoulder. "One more day, husband of mine, and our destiny begins. First England, then Kattegat, and then the world."

He smiles. One more day. And then the wrath of Ivar the Boneless will be unleashed upon the earth.

The gods help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go....


	22. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Freja set sail to England and start a new chapter in their lives 
> 
> TW: none

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done!!! I did it! Thanks everyone for your kudos and comments and support. It means the world to me. These two crazy kids will hopefully be back in a sequel once Season 5 starts airing. Please enjoy this last installation!

She stands out on the docks, watching the last of the boats being loaded. Today is the day. Today, she sets sail for England beside her husband and his army. For it truly is his great and glorious army, no matter what anyone says. Her husband is a born leader; cunning, ruthless, able to make men bow to his command. She feels a thrill of excitement run through her at the prospect of what England will be for him. For them. To see her husband kill, conquer, plunder...her body trembles at the delight of it. 

"Cold, sister?" Ubbe sidles up beside her, wrapped himself in a thick fur coat. "You can have my coat, if you wish."

She smiles at her brother in law's kindness. "No, Ubbe, I am fine. I am just excited for the journey, and what awaits us in the land of the Saxons."

"Ah," Ubbe grins knowingly. "You are looking forward to seeing your husband in battle. I will make sure to pitch my tent far away from yours."

She feels heat rise to her cheeks, but she returns his grin and slaps his arm good naturedly. "We are not that loud."

Ubbe's eyebrows rise to his hairline. "I have spent a few nights lately sleeping by the fire outside our cabin when you are in there with him. I assure you, you are that loud."

Her cheeks are flaming now. "Ubbe!"

He laughs a big belly laugh. "Oh sister, it is not a bad thing! A man likes to know that everyone within a 50 mile area can hear how good he treats his woman."

She groans. "I hate you!"

He laughs again and makes to tease her some more, but is interrupted by the tell tale sound of a body being dragged over the wooden slats of the docks. A warm feeling spreads throughout her as she turns to observe her husband crawling towards them. He moves slower, as his ribs are still quite sore, but the sleek prowess that makes her belly ache with heat is still there. 

"Why are my wife's cheeks so red, brother?" He says in way of greeting, reaching them. He waves off Ubbe's attempt to help him as he slowly hoists himself up onto a barrel. Pain flashes across his face, and her heart clenches within her. 

"Just doing my brotherly duty," Ubbe ruffles his younger brother's hair. "I must tease her every once and a while, Ivar."

"Not too much," Ivar counters, his blue eyes dark and mischievous as he takes them over her entire form. Her skin tingles pleasantly in response. "Teasing her is my job."

The double meaning of his words do not escape her. Desire slides over her skin, thick and delicious. Great Odin, how is it that this man has such an effect on her? She hopes against hope that will never change. 

"You have not greeted me yet, little wife," Ivar is smirking at her now. "Come now, say a proper hello to your husband."

She doesn't care to remind him that she already greeted him quite pleasantly and thoroughly this morning, nestled under the furs of his bed. Any chance to kiss her love is a chance not worth wasting. She eagerly steps over to him, letting him grab her waist and crush her against him. It is not a chaste kiss in the slightest, and she can hear Ubbe chuckling as she sighs happily into Ivar's warm mouth.

"I will leave you two to it then," he says, and she hears his heavy boots clunking slowly away towards the boats. Ivar kisses her for a moment more, then catches her bottom lip between her teeth, nipping lightly at it before pulling back and brushing his nose tenderly against hers. 

"My little wife," he murmurs, hands gripping her waist tightly. "Are you ready for our grand adventure?"

She sticks her tongue out, running it lightly over his lips and savouring the soft groan that escapes him. "Mmmmm, I am practically shaking with anticipation. I only hope I will not get seasick, I am not very good with boats."

He laughs her favourite little chuckle, pulling back so he can run his eyes over her face. "I will stick my axe in your back if you tell anyone, but I was sick my first trip over."

She snorts. "It is nothing to be ashamed about, just unpleasant. And your axe would not even get near my back. My knife would find itself between your ribs first."

His eyes darken. "Still so defiant, mitt hjarta? Hmmmmmm, I will have to spend the journey thinking of creative ways to bring you to submission."

She digs her nails into his shoulders, wishing desperately they had time to slink back to his cabin. "Me, submissive? Ragnarok will happen before that."

A horn blasts from the boats; they are nearly ready to depart. She turns in his arms to face out to sea, a thrilling hum settling in her veins. His arms wind around her waist possessively, anchoring her against his broad chest. She feels him lean his chin on her shoulder, turning to press a soft sucking kiss to the tender skin . 

"I made sure we are not in the same boat as your father," he murmurs into her neck, continuing to suck gently. "He is glaring daggers at us now. Hopefully we will not sail too close to him."

She looks around the docks until she sees the tall, proud figure of her father. Ivar is right; he is glaring at them like he wishes to march over and rip her from her love. Her heart gives a painful throb. She knows she has made the right choice, but that does not mean it does not hurt. She does not know if the rift between them will ever be repaired. The man who raised her, who comforted her and provided for her, was now nothing more than a stranger. 

"He will try to kill you in England, of that I am sure," she whispers, her soul sick with dread at the thought of either of them lying dead. 

"He can certainly try," Ivar's growl is low and menacing. Her father's state grows colder, as if he can hear what Ivar is saying. Then he abruptly turns away and steps onto a boat. She feels a hollowness settle itself into the pit of her stomach. 

"Come now," Ivar pinches her side gently. "We should be boarding."

She slips out of his grasp, pulling her cloak tighter around her as the cool sea breeze whips through her hair. She is unsure which boat to get on, until she sees Floki guesturing to her from one close by. 

"All aboard, oh mighty Freja," he teases, extending a hand to help her step over the side. "Time to set sail for revenge and glory."

"Your boats are beautiful, Floki," she smiles at the older man. "The gods have blessed you with great talent."

The boatbuilder giggles. "Take some lessons from your wife, Ivar. She knows how to respect her elders!"

Ivar glares at Floki as he hoists himself into the boat. "Shut up, old man-don't help me, I'm fine!" He swats angrily at the hand Floki reaches out to him. "People need to stop trying to baby me!"

"You are hurt, husband mine," she rolls her eyes at his scowl. "Asking for help is not a show of weakness."

"Did I ask you, woman?" He growls at her, getting himself into the boat and settled in a good spot. She rolls her eyes again, moving over to sit herself down beside him. He anchors her firmly to his side with a strong arm. She in turn rests her head on his shoulder.

Horns begin to blasts; it is time. The boats are all untied, their proud sails billowing in the breeze. Floki whoops loudly in excitement, the look of joy on his face almost childish. She nestles herself closer to her husband, excitement and anticipation once again thrumming through her. They are on their path now. Whatever happens in England will set the course for their future. A future she is desperate to begin. It is her and Ivar now, as the gods have always intended. They will kill the Saxon Kings. They will conquer and raid and burn. They will return to Kattegat and dethrone Lagertha the usurper. They will establish a dynasty worthy of song.

They will truly live.

"I love you," she murmurs softly, her small hand slipping into the calloused warmth of his larger one. His long fingers wrap tightly around hers.

"You are everything," is all he says, and it is more than enough. He is more than enough. The hollowness from her father's glare disappears, and her heart fills with love, wonder and joy. 

The boats slowly start to glide out to sea.

Let their adventures begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more writing on my Tumblr underthenorthstar :)


	23. Authors note

Hi guys,

So lately on Tumblr there has been a lot of discussion and problems with the use of the slur "cripple" and using ableism in fics. I have decided to change the title of this fic because I do not want to be a part of that problem. I in no way support ableism or anything that it entails. Please guys, evaluate what you write and read with a critical eye. We are all guilty of making these mistakes, but it is important that we learn from them. 

Thank you for understanding!


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